


Murder, He Wrote

by jezziejay



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Egypt, M/M, Murder Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-12 10:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19944736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezziejay/pseuds/jezziejay
Summary: Jonathan and Patrick sailing down the Nile in the 1930s, solving crimes and falling in love.





	1. This Charming Man

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on my favorite Agatha Christie novel of all time, and while there are some amazing made-to-movie adaptations of this, the best by far is Agatha Christie's Poirot, featuring David Suchet. (Watch that version before Kenneth Brannagh ruins it for you.)
> 
> I should warn that this is a very niche fic, and quite different from what I usually write. For those of you who delve in, I hope you enjoy it. Also unbeta'd as I'm still finishing some scenes and editing as I go along. 6 chapters in total.
> 
> Many thanks to [allthebros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebros) for running the fest and for her cheerleading.
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to [thundersquall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersquall) for the lovely map of the Karnak that she made for me at ridiculously short notice.

*{casting}

Superintendent Jonathan Toews of the Egyptian National Police, aged 31, from Canada

Mr. Patrick Kane, travel writer, aged 31, from the USA

Mrs. Linnea Doyle (née Ridgeway), millionairess, recently married, aged 20, from England

Mr. Simon Doyle, husband to Linnea, aged 23, from England

Miss Julia Belfort, former fiancée of Simon, aged 21, from England

Sir Easton Carlisle, hotelier, mid-30s, from England

John Smith, political student and activist, mid-20s, from England

Dr. Albert Sauer, medical doctor, early 50s, from Germany

Sr. Bernadine, religious order, late 30s, from Jersey Island

Hana Hrabas, maid, aged 19, from Poland

Delilah Masud, singer and chef, aged 21, from Egypt

Vikram Gamal, manager of Karnak, late 40s, from Egypt

*

“I am the victim of a most intolerable persecution.”

Linnea Doyle sets the china cup delicately back onto its saucer, and blinks her enormous sea-green eyes at Jonathan. She’s a fragile beauty, the kind that makes men protective, territorial, stupid. Her skin is porcelain, her cheekbones high, and her dark hair is swept up to reveal the vulnerable arch of her neck. 

“I don’t know where else to turn.”

It’s clever of her, he thinks, to invite him to be her savior.

“Inspector?”

“Superintendent,” Jonathan corrects. “I’m not really sure how it is that I can help you, Mrs. Doyle.”

“Well.” She takes a breath, as if gathering strength from the fresh air. “As I told your colleague at the station, for some time now I have been criminally harassed and stalked across the continents by someone who is relentless and unstable.”

She stops, looking expectant, as if Jonathan should jump in here, offer assurances and sympathy. But in his experience, Jonathan has found that silence shakes the details into a story.

“Her name is Julia Belfort,” Linnea says. 

Jonathan takes a sip of his lemon squash, and then a bigger gulp when he realizes that the ice is melting. “I think you should start from the beginning,” he suggests.

Italy is where it began. The Doyles' honeymoon and the persecution. Julia was there, everywhere Linnea turned. In the hotel, at dinner, waving from a passing gondola. “Simon, my husband, decided that we should change our plans, just to get away from her. So, we moved east instead of north.”

But Julia had found them, seemingly without effort. She had turned up in Greece, Turkey, and Cyprus.

“When we arrived here in Cairo last week, my husband and I joined a tour. I was thoroughly rattled, and Simon thought that I might feel better in a crowd. Safety in numbers, and all of that. After the first night here, when there was no sight of her, I began to believe that maybe we had shaken her off. Or perhaps she finally decided to let us live in peace.” 

Linnea finishes with a sigh that suggests otherwise.

“Miss Belfort joined the tour?”

“No. She simply follows it. On Wednesday she was in Giza, on Thursday she was at the Citadel, and today… Well, it’s still early. If she isn’t already lurking around, I shall doubtless encounter her at the Old City this afternoon.” 

She picks up her cup and fiddles with it before setting it down again. “I really need you to put an immediate stop to this, Superintendent.” 

“And I really need you to start at the very beginning,” Jonathan replies. “Before Italy.” He suspects that this story begins long before the honeymoon.

Linnea’s beautiful face clouds a little, clearly not accustomed to being spoken to with anything other than utter compliance. She begins speaking in clipped sentences, her English accent more pronounced, as if indeed, there are plums in her mouth. “Julia and I were childhood acquaintances. We were both orphans at a very young age, and we lived in the same village. Sadly, my only brother died in Africa several years ago. He was unwed, and I became the sole heir to a rather vast family fortune. Soon after that, Jules and I began moving in very different circles. To put it crassly, Superintendent, I was stinking rich. She was as poor as a churchmouse.” 

_Jules_. A familiarity, an endearment, how one close friend might address another. It’s a slip of the tongue that makes a liar of Linnea’s ‘acquaintance’ claim.

“Last summer, I received a letter from Julia informing me that she was engaged, and that she wished to introduce me to her fiancé. It was stuff and nonsense, of course. What she really wanted was a handout. She wanted me to give Simon a job.” 

And there it is. “The same Simon who is now your husband?” 

Linnea’s chin juts haughtily. “Yes, and it was a very regrettable situation. But they were most unsuited, and Simon was already deeply unhappy before he came to work for me. If anything, I saved them both from a miserable union.”

“Kind of you,” Jonathan drawls. Linnea narrows her eyes, all the faux-vulnerability stripped from her face, replaced by a ferociousness that leaves Jonathan in no doubt -- once Linnea set her sights on Simon Doyle, Julia Belfort hadn’t stood a chance.

“As I say,” she says icily. “The circumstances surrounding our meeting were unfortunate, and Simon feels like the world’s worst cad, which he isn’t. He’s kind and sweet and smart, and he’s suffering, too. He’s as much a victim in all of this as I am.”

Jonathan’s hard pressed to feel much by the way of sympathy.

“So, I wish to know just what you plan to do to end this torture, Superintendent.” 

Jonathan looks out towards the busy market street. The tourists are making their way through the throng, either ducking from forceful sales or haggling with delighted traders or trying not to trip over the ever-moving street children. It’s early morning, and the sun is low in the sky, reminding Jonathan that January is his favourite month in Egypt. The temperature might even out somewhere in the mid-sixties by afternoon.

“Nothing,” he says after a few seconds. “I plan to do nothing, because there is nothing I can do.”

“Nothing,” Linnea echoes, astonished. 

Jonathan looks back at her. “Miss Belfort has not verbally or physically threatened you or your husband. She has broken no laws, and I cannot have a person arrested and punished in the absence of a crime.”

“But I told you, I told you what she has done, what she _continues_ to do. It’s… it’s cruel, it’s more than cruel, it’s barbaric. It’s heartless, and it’s intolerable, and it’s…”

“Doubtless all of these things,” Jonathan agrees. “But it is not illegal. This is a free world, and Miss Belfort is as entitled as you to travel it.” 

Linnea’s face twists until her expression is brattish and sly. “There is still such a thing as civilized behaviour, Superintendent. Perhaps in America standards differ, but this city is still under English rule, I am an English citizen, and we do not tolerate such persecution.”

Jonathan wonders just how civilized stealing another woman’s fiancé is. “Mrs. Doyle, I am Canadian, not American.” That needs immediate clarification. “And yes, the city remains under English rule for the time being, and I am paid to uphold such rule. However.” He stops and shrugs his shoulders. _No rule has been broken._

Linnea's lips stutter, and then wobble. “What should I do?” she asks, and the hitch in her breath sounds genuinely desperate.

Go home, Jonathan thinks. Back to the safety of your village and the walls of your mansion, back to where the local magistrate is putty in your hands, where your money and your class and your beauty will always get you whatever it is you want.

“Appeal to Miss Belfort’s better nature?” he suggests. “Speak to her? Apologize?”

That last word lands like a slap on Linnea’s cheek. She gathers her bag and parasol, and rises gracefully from her chair. 

“Think about it,” Jonathan adds.

Her laugh is more of a scoff. “Tonight I board a six day cruise to Luxor, and there is little doubt that I will be followed by the one enemy I have on this earth. Why don’t you think about that, Superintendent.”

She leaves without another world, her parasol opened up against the sun and all the other woes in her world.

“She’s lying,” a voice says just as Jonathan is finishing off his squash.

“I’m sorry?”

A man in a pale linen suit and panama hat slides into the chair that Linnea has just vacated. “Patrick Kane,” he says, holding out a hand. Jonathan takes it, somewhat disarmed by the sudden appearance and the man’s piercing gaze. It appears that this is the morning for remarkable eyes.

“Jonathan Toews,” he says. “Superintendent.”

“I know, I heard,” Patrick says. “Couldn’t help it. I was sitting right there.” He jerks his thumb at the table to Jonathan’s right.

“You were listening in on our conversation?”

“I was trying to.” Patrick takes off his hat just long enough to fan himself a few times and for Jonathan to catch sight of a riot of blond curls. “Not that I could hear everything. Linnea will do that dramatic voice drop. Anyhow, I know her. She’s a friend. Well, no, not a friend. We’re on the same tour, is all. But I know her quite well.”

“Well enough to say that she is lying?” 

“Not about Julia, no,” Patrick says. “If anything, she was down playing that. Julia’s the type that plays with her food before eating it.” He pulls a face. “It’s like watching a mouse under cat’s claws. No, that’s all totally true. The lie is that Julia is Linnea’s only enemy.”

“She has more than one?”

Patrick nods. “More than two, I’d say, although don’t push me for a full count.”

The abrupt way that he landed in the midst of this conversation hits Jonathan suddenly. “So, just let me… you are following Mrs. Doyle and eavesdropping in on her private conversations because you are worried about her getting hurt?”

Patrick thinks for a minute before answering. “I think I am,” he says slowly. “Worried about her. At first, I was just curious. She’s quite the attraction, being the wealthiest woman in England at the age of twenty, and probably the most beautiful. But then I started watching the people around her, and what makes her attractive also makes others resentful.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Not right now, I can’t,” Patrick says, standing and fussing over the hang of his pants. “Why don’t you come see for yourself. We are all meeting this afternoon at the Coptic Museum in the Old Town Square. One o’clock.”

And then he’s gone with a parting smile that leaves Jonathan’s addled mind even more distracted.

*

“Acquaintances?” Julia Belfort throws back her head and lets out a harsh laugh. “That’s what dear Linnea said? That we’re acquaintances?” Her dark eyes dance with dangerous amusement. “It appears that Linnea lost her memory when she gained her fortune.”

“So, you were, close?”

“She was my best friend in the world, Superintendent Toews. We shared a governess for a time, both of us orphans and under the care of the same patron. Her brother was away travelling the world, leaving her quite alone. He died in Africa somewhere.” Her brows rise, inviting Jonathan into a confidence. “He was shot. It was a huge scandal. _Huge_. Linny often said that she would never have gotten through that time had I not been there. But then the will was read, and that was a greater soothe to her grief than I. Alfie left her not only their parents wealth, but also the fortune he made in mining.”

She smiles, small and grim. “Money changes people.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Jonathan says. He believes it, too.

They don’t say anything more for a few minutes, both of them sitting on the dusty steps across from the Babylon Fortress. It’s approaching one p.m., and the crowds are rising with the sun in the sky.

“I don’t blame Simon, having his head turned by all this sudden wealth,” Julia says. “He’d always been frightfully hard up, always complaining about what a bore it was. He just wanted nice things, you see, the yachts and the cocktail parties and the grand mansions. We used to talk about it late into the night, what we’d do if we ever came into money, and for him, it was all about the grandeur, having people be impressed by him.” When she laughs, it sounds fond. “Men and their vanity. But I think that was just his little weakness. I suppose we all have our weaknesses. And he was my mine. I would do anything for him, anything at all. From the moment I met him, I adored him. I had no idea, you know, that one could feel… that I could…” She stops, her hands clenching, as if so utterly overwhelmed that words are insufficient. “Did you love someone that much, Superintendent? So wholly, so instantly, that you were consumed by it? That you would risk anything for their happiness?”

“I’m not sure that I have,” Jonathan answers, somewhat dry. He should be embarrassed by her candour, but there’s something so broken about her that what he feels most is sympathy.

“Then I hope you never do, because when what you love is taken from you, there is nothing left. Well, except for revenge.”

“And is that what you want, revenge?”

Julia’s head shakes. She reaches into the purse on her lap and pulls out a tiny pistol with a short barrel and a pearl handle. “What I _want_ is to press this to dear Linnea’s temple, and gently pull the trigger and watch as I take her life, just as she took mine.” 

Jonathan looks between her and the gun, somewhat alarmed by this sudden turn. 

“But I won’t,” Julia says, suddenly brightening. She stuffs the gun back into her purse, and leaps to her feet. “I’d end up with the hangman’s noose around my neck. And where would the fun be in that?”

“I might ask, where is the fun in travelling all the way to Egypt to torment Mrs. Doyle? Surely you can’t think that this will end well. There is nothing but misery for you here.”

Julia shrugs. “I’m already miserable, and I don’t care how well it ends. I just want an ending.”

Jonathan tries to think of something to say to that, something that might persuade her to keep the gun in her purse, but they both get distracted by the appearance of a group of tourists in pale clothing and wide brimmed hats. He spots Patrick immediately, walking at the rear of the gathering. His shirt sleeves are folded to just below his elbows, and his suspenders are on full view, holding up a fresh pair of linen pants. 

“Time for me to go get ready for my grand entrance,” Julia says, and takes off running just as Patrick catches sight of them.

“Hello,” he calls out, a flash of a grin stealing across his face as he begins walking up the steps. “You came.”

“I did,” Jonathan says, smiling back.

“And was that Julia Belfort I saw making a dash for it?”

“It was. She was sitting right where you're standing last time I looked.”

“It’s very easy to lose sight of her,” Patrick says, nodding. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, shakes it out and lays it down to sit on. “You spoke with her?”

“Yes, well, no, actually. She mostly spoke to me. When I got here, she said she spotted me having tea with Mrs. Doyle this morning, and then told me that I should know what a selfish harlot she -- Mrs. Doyle -- is. So I told her who I was, about Mrs. Doyle’s complaint, and then she told me her side of the whole sorry affair. And then she showed me her gun.”

Patrick’s eyes widen. “I’m almost hoping that's a euphemism.”

“Sadly, no,” Jonathan says, reluctantly charmed by the impropriety. “It’s very real.” 

“That can’t be good.”

“To put it mildly.”

“You didn’t think to take it from her?”

“No.” Jonathan shakes his head. “I had no reason to. But…”

“But?”

“Perhaps I should have tried to find one,” Jonathan admits.

Patrick hms and then shrugs. “Probably won’t matter really. There’s more of them.”

“More guns?”

“No, sorry. No. More enemies.” Patrick nods his head at the crowd gathered below in the square. “Let me introduce you to some. Starting with the husband, who I don’t actually think is an enemy. Simon Doyle, standing to right of Linnea. Rather helpless, and not very bright. But very handsome, easy to see why women would fight over him. He has this whole thing working for him. You know, the ‘oh shucks’ charm…” Patrick trails off to look up at Jonathan through his lashes, a slow, almost private smile crossing his face. He bites at it, catching his lower lip with his teeth, pulling the blood from it. He laughs then, somewhat self-consciously. “Something like that, but he does it much better than me.”

Jonathan’s not so sure. 

“You know what I mean, though. He uses that look to get him what he wants, and to get him out of trouble. Works a treat with Linnea, and it most likely did with Julia, too.”

Jonathan isn’t close enough to see just how handsome Simon Doyle is, but he can see how near he stays to Linnea, his hand on the small of her back. “He loves his wife, though?”

“He seems to,” Patrick answers. “But someone who doesn’t love her is the lady standing on the outside of the group. That’s Hana, Linnea’s personal maid. I overheard an argument between them after lunch yesterday. It turns out that Hana has a boyfriend who has a wife and family. And the wife wants a payout before she’ll give the boyfriend a divorce.”

Jonathan has the feeling that Patrick overhears so much because he keeps his ears pressed against doors.

“I think Hana thought that Linnea would sympathize, that perhaps their love stories were not all that different.”

“Mrs. Doyle thought otherwise?” Jonathan guesses.

“Refused to part with a penny. I got the impression that this is an old argument between them. Anyhow, see the man standing beside Simon? That’s John Smith. He’s English, not long returned from studying in Germany where he picked up a hefty dose of Bolshevism. Looking to start a revolution, I think, beginning with a culling of -- and I quote -- _vapid, thieving millionaire leeches_. Which very much gets under the skin of the large gentleman with the beard. That’s Teddy Pennington, and he’s Linnea’s very American and very capitalist lawyer.”

Jonathan can feel his brows rise. “Mrs. Doyle brought her lawyer on her honeymoon?”

“No,” Patrick says, looking pleased with himself, relishing his storyteller role. “He ran into Linnea and Simon quite by chance. I mean, bumping into your lawyer, from America, on accident, in Cairo, while on honeymoon? That’s a heck of a coincidence. And here’s another. The man with the walking stick? That’s Sir Easton Carlisle, and he was once promised in marriage to Linnea, or so it’s rumored. He also just happens to be in Cairo at this very time. Says he’s bought a hotel on the south coast of England, which he assures me is the English Riviera. He wants in on the tourism game so he’s here on some type of recon, seeing how tours and cruises work. Claims he was shocked when he saw Linnea on that first day. But the thing is, I was there at the time, and he didn’t really look all that surprised.”

That leaves just two people in the group that Jonathan knows nothing about.

“The good Doctor Sauer,” Patrick says, nodding towards the short, stout man with the oversized hat. “He’s German. His name means sour, and it really suits him. Keeps to himself. Very shifty about answering any questions at all.”

Jonathan can only imagine what a vexation that is to Patrick. The idea of it makes him smile. “And the nun?” he asks with a kick of a tease. “Surely she has the best story. Maybe she’s Mrs. Doyle’s long lost mother, handed over to a convent when she fell pregnant with the illegitimate child of an American president. And there, in a single cell room, a love child was born on a stormy night, and wrenched from her mother’s arms, little knowing that one day they would be reunited in the ancient city of Cairo.”

Patrick throws his head back and laughs. “Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid. That’s Sr. Bernadine, and according to her, she’s a missionary nun from Jersey Island originally, but she’s been in Egypt for many years working with the street children. She was given this trip as a reward for her dedication and service by some church benefactors. There was a big write up about it in all the local papers, according to her.”

“Two ‘according to hers’,” Jonathan teases.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I believe it. It’s all a bit…”

“Boring?”

“ _Convenient_.”

“And you prefer inconvenient?”

“It’s not that. There’s something about her that I don’t buy. It's not love children on stormy nights, but there's... something.”

Jonathan fully understands that sometimes there’s just no arguing with gut instinct, no matter how unfounded it is. “And what about you,” he says. “Do you have a prior knowledge of Mrs. Doyle? Do you want to harm her? Any guns in your pockets?”

Patrick’s lips twist in amusement. “I’m merely the narrator,” he says. “Which is fitting really, because that’s what I do for a living. I write books, travel books.”

“Convenient,” Jonathan says with a smirk that grows into a smile when Patrick laughs again.

The small crowd below them are beginning to disperse, the guide reminding them be back in an hour. 

“Don’t you want to look around, too?” Jonathan asks.

Patrick leans back on his palms, his face lifted to the sun. “No. I’m done with moving for today. What I really want is a Gin Rickey, and to stay here like this for a while.”

“A Gin Rickey, eh. Do they still have prohibition where you live?”

“I hear it’s ended. But I won’t be going back until I know for sure.” Patrick turns to Jonathan, his face at an angle. “What’s your story? They still sell alcohol in Canada, don’t they?”

“As far as I know,” Jonathan answers, dryly. “I just wanted a break from the snow.”

“You came to the right place. So, what do you think of all of this, then?”

“Are all of these people going on the cruise later today?”

Patrick nods. “Yes, we’ll have a whole boat crammed with emotional instability, unlikely reunions, secrets, at least one gun, and no escape.”

Hearing it laid out like that sends a spike of anxiety through Jonathan’s stomach. “Keep a close watch on Mrs. Doyle,” he says. “She’s the centre of everything. But some of that could be contrived. It might just be that someone wants all the attention on her, so as to keep it off them.”

Patrick grunts softly. “So, what you’re saying is, I need to watch everybody.”

Jonathan’s thinking that’s exactly what he's saying when Linnea Doyle comes back into view. She looks relaxed, almost peaceful as she strolls across the square, accompanied by the trailing Hana. There’s a stone bench beneath the temple canopy, and Linnea takes a seat to read her guide book. Hana stands off to the side, her back turned rudely to her mistress.

“Linnea! _Darling_!”

Patrick and Jonathan both jolt, heads turning to Julia Belfort, who, as promised, is making her theatrical appearance. Or reappearance.

“Ah, this afternoon's entertainment. Too bad we didn’t get that drink,” Patrick mutters, pushing himself to sit up straight.

“So good to see you again,” Julia calls, making her way towards Linnea. “Are you enjoying your book? Have you got to the part about Empusa, the demigoddess who feasted on the blood of beautiful young men? Sucked them dry, and then fed on their flesh. I feel like you and her would get along famously, so much in common.”

“Ouch,” Patrick mutters, but despite the flippancy of his tone, Jonathan can feel him tense a little.

“Unfortunately,” Julia continues. “One day, she discovered that she made the wrong choice. She picked the wrong man, and guess what?”

Linnea lifts her head, tilting her chin defiantly. “Go home, Julia. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I rather think I’m embarrassing you, darling. Anyway, he killed her. That’s what happened to poor Empusa, and all because -”

She’s cut off with a sudden shout, and what happens next is quicker than Jonathan can process. He barely registers the boulder falling from the roof of the temple, but jumps when it crashes onto the ground, mostly intact but with large chunks of stone breaking off and rolling for a couple of meters. He’s running down the steps even before the thundering sounds are replaced with screams, Patrick on his heels.

Linnea and Julia had been pulled free from where they would have undoubtedly been crushed to death, miraculously unharmed, but shaken. Julia is staring wildly around herself, her mouth opening without anything coming from it. She struggles somewhat uselessly against Sr. Bernadine’s hold.

Simon Doyle is cradling his wife, and Jonathan’s not even sure which of the pair is shaking the most. The rest of the tour have appeared from wherever they were, and are hanging around awkwardly.

“Come with me,” he says, cupping a hand around Patrick’s elbow to steer him around by the steps of the temple. They climb quickly without meeting anybody on the way down. The roof is empty, too, nothing to see but vertical drag lines crossed with horizontal scuff marks where the boulder once rested.

“It was pushed off,” Patrick says, edging closer. “And then somebody messed up the footprints. See?”

Jonathan does. He also sees something black and small lying on the ground. Three, no four of them. He crouches down to pick them up.

“What are they?” Patrick asks, squinting at Jonathan’s open palm. “Oh, I know. They’re sequins, from dresses and gowns. They must have come off some lady’s clothing.”

“Is anybody wearing sequins?”

“On the tour?” Patrick slides his eyes to the side while he thinks. “No,” he says after a few seconds. “Not that I can think of.” 

Jonathan sighs and walks back to the edge. Down below angry voices rise as concern gives way to loud accusation. The doctor is helping the nun to keep a hold of a wriggling Julia Belfort while Simon Doyle shouts at her. He, in turn, is being held back by the American lawyer. The hotel man with the title is rocking back and forth on his feet, the maid is scowling at the ground, and the Smith man is looking on, positively gleeful.

And in the middle of all the chaos is a sobbing Linnea.

“Sheesh,” Patrick mutters. “How on earth am I supposed to keep an eye on this lot?”

Jonathan doesn’t answer. He’s already mentally packing his bags for a cruise down the Nile.

*

TBC...tomorrow.


	2. We Are Sailing

*  
Jonathan is not, by nature, an impulsive person. He finds that methodical and reasoned thinking is far more conducive to avoiding somewhat embarrassing situations. Such as the one he finds himself in now.

“I’m sorry, Superintendent Toews, sir. I am most sorry but there is nothing I can do.”

Vikram does appear to be very sorry. He’s standing on the gangway of the dahabiya, wringing his hands in utter dismay. “There is just no room, sir. We have but eight guest cabins, and all of them are in use.”

Jonathan sighs, and looks down at his hastily packed suitcase. “What about in the staff quarters? Is there a space there?”

Now Vikram looks scandalized. “No, no, sir. There is not. And even if there were, it would be no place for a gentleman such as yourself.”

“I’m not --”

Heavy footsteps bound across the deck towards them, cutting off Jonathan’s protests.

“Hello,” Patrick says, smiling a little when spots Jonathan’s case. “What’s going on? Are you sailing with us?”

“I was hoping to,” Jonathan answers. “But the boat appears to be full.”

Vikram confirms this by making a sound of utter despair.

“Well, my cabin isn’t,” Patrick says. “There’s plenty of room in there.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Jonathan says.

“He couldn’t possibly,” Vikram repeats sadly.

Patrick snorts. “Nonsense. There are two berths, and I can’t sleep in both. Come on, let’s go, hurry, hurry.” 

Jonathan looks to Vikram who seems to be thinking about whether this could possibly work. “Yes,” he decides with a relieved smile. “Follow Mr. Kane, Superintendent. Hurry, hurry.”

Jonathan picks up his case and hurry hurries after Patrick, down the somewhat narrow deck. 

“I was hoping you’d come,” Patrick says, quickly glancing over his shoulder at Jonathan. “I just wasn’t sure if you’d be allowed to take on this case.”

_Allowed_ is pretty generous. Jonathan had taken a personal holiday in lieu of permission, said that he had a family situation and would be back in a week or two. _Case_ is also a little indulgent, considering that nothing is being actively investigated. Well, not unless a sequined dress makes an appearance. But for all intents and purposes, there’s nothing official about Jonathan’s presence on this trip.

“There are only two cabins on this side of the boat,” Patrick says, stopping to unlock one of them. “We’re neighbours with the Doyles, which might actually be convenient. The rest of the port deck is the dining room and lounge.”

Jonathan follows him into a room that is bigger than he’s expecting. It’s brightly painted which makes up somewhat for the scant amount of natural light coming through the small window beside the door. There’s a ceiling fan which might come in useful, and some wicker type furniture placed here and there - a chair, a shelving unit, and a waste basket. A few woven rugs are scattered about.

“I thought you said there were two beds,” Jonathan says when he sees what looks like one double unit.

“There are. That’s actually two beds - two frames and two mattresses. We’re just sharing a headboard.”

_Closely_ sharing a headboard.

“Can’t be moved, I’m afraid, nailed in,” Patrick continues, looking uncertain when Jonathan doesn’t say anything. “I guess it’s a safety feature? For rough weather? Although perhaps we could ask Vikram…”

“No,” Jonathan says quickly. “It’s just that I’m close enough to bother you with my snoring.”

“And I’m close enough to kick you if you do,” Patrick says cheerfully. “Why don’t you put your stuff away, and we can go get a drink and solve some mysteries.”

Jonathan walks to the closet. “Sounds like a plan,” he says, hanging up his one good dinner suit and reaching for his extra shirts. “Let’s start by solving the mystery right here in this room.”

There’s about a five second pause before Patrick says, “I’m sorry?”

Jonathan fusses with his clothes for a little longer before closing the closet. Patrick is eyeing him warily, head cocked.

“The mystery of the travel writer in Egypt who has no interest in seeing the sights he should be writing about. The same writer who has ten pairs of shoes in his closet, but no camera or tripod. And finally, Patrick, this side of the boat is starboard not port.”

Patrick winces. “Something else a travel writer would know, huh?”

“Indeed.”

“Okay, fine,” Patrick says, clapping his hands theatrically. “You win, clever clogs. Allow me to introduce you to Jacqueline E. Jane.”

Jonathan looks around, somewhat startled, but there is no one else in the cabin.

Patrick clucks his tongue. “I mean, I’m Jacqueline E. Jane.” He’s looking at Jonathan expectantly, cheering him on with raised, encouraging eyebrows. They start to fall though, when Jonathan just stares back at him.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“I’m a bit confused,” Jonathan admits.

“Jacqueline E. Jane? Famous American mystery writer? Award-winning mystery writer? _Multi_ award-winning mystery writer? _The Body in the Bakery_? _The Nesting Dolls_? _The Case at Kingfisher Falls_? Dulcie Cotterage?”

“Oh, you mean you write fiction?”

“Damned fine fiction,” Patrick huffs.

“And you’re famous?”

“Not in Egypt, apparently.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan offers. “I’ve been living here for more than eight years, and it’s hard to get anything from the local library that isn’t by Dickens or Tolstoy. Besides, I spend all day with criminals, so I don’t really want to read about them when I get home. Uh, no offense.”

Patrick’s expression says plenty taken. “We grew up reading mysteries in my house. Women authors mostly, Mary Sauers Rineheart, Marie Belloc Lowndes, and more recently, Agatha Christie. My sisters and I used to create murder mysteries of our own, and we called ourselves Jacqueline E. Jane. Jacqueline is the youngest, the E is for Erica, who is the oldest, and Jane is J for Jessica in the middle and a little bit of Kane, for us all. They grew out of our little productions, but I kept writing, just short stories for the parish newsletter. After a few years, I sent a stack of them to a publisher along with a draft of what would be my first novel, and that was it.”

“You didn’t think about changing back to your real name when you were first published?”

“I did,” Patrick says, nodding. “And there are a few reasons why I didn’t, like nostalgia, a reminder of all the fun times I’ve had with my sisters. But it was also practical. Research is easier when you’re anonymous. People say more when they’re relaxed.”

The horn ends the conversation, loudly blasting throughout the boat to announce departure.

“We should dress for dinner,” Patrick says, and turns towards the bathroom.

Jonathan thinks what he should actually do is escape before the boat actually sets sail. Could be that everything Patrick told him earlier is nothing but the musings of an overactive writer’s imagination. 

Although nobody imagined that boulder being shoved off the roof. 

And, well, could also be that Jonathan is having fun.

*

The dinner table is set for ten people. Jonathan and Patrick sit together, with Sr. Bernadine on Patrick’s left, and John Smith on Jonathan’s right. At either end are Sir Easton Carlisle and Doctor Sauer. The only person across from them is Teddy Pennington, who has cleverly situated himself with two free seats one side of him, and one seat to the other side. He’s the buffer between the three missing guests, Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, and Julia Belfort.

“Dammit,” he says when Vikram places a dish of fish, capers and potatoes down too close to a mound of papers. 

“My apologies, sir,” Vikram mutters. “Perhaps you might prefer to eat in your cabin? There would be more room for your important… works.”

John Smith snorts rudely, and Pennington glares at him for a few seconds before shaking his head. “No,” he says, gathering up the several bundles of folders and papers, and placing them on the chair to his right. “I’m fine here.”

When Vikram leaves, Pennington nods stiffly to the table. “I’m sorry if you think I’m bad mannered, but these are indeed rather urgent financial matters that need the attention of Mrs. Doyle.”

“Indeed,” Smith says, mockingly mild. “What could be more urgent than Mrs. Doyle acquiring yet another pearl necklace or fur coat. Certainly not, say, the lunatic in Germany. Right, Dr. Sauer? Or the children who starve to death on the very banks of this river. What say you, Sr. Bernadine?”

“Well, I…” Sr. Bernadine looks on uneasily as Pennington and Smith stare off.

“Congratulations on your award, Sr. Bernadine, it was very well deserved,” Patrick says. “How long have you been in Cairo?”

Sr. Bernadine beams. “Thank you, although the honor has been serving the children. I came to Egypt after I took my vows fifteen years ago, and immediately fell in love with the people.”

“I’m sure you’ve saved many of them from death,” Smith says. “Do you ever think of how many more lives could be saved if your church would part with even a fraction of its obscene wealth?”

“The potatoes are nice,” Jonathan announces, mostly to change the subject, but also because it’s true. Everything is swimming in some kind of herb butter sauce, and the fish is flaking off the bone. It’s been a long time since he’s eaten this well.

“Yes,” Patrick agrees. “Very nice.”

“Think they were grown locally,” Sir Easton says, and they talk inanely about the food, and food in general, for the rest of dinner. The unspoken but widely understood game in play is to fill the silence and close Smith out of the conversation. It lasts through dessert, right up to Jonathan laying down his spoon after the last bite of his spiced rice pudding. Dr. Sauer is saying something about the cuisine of southern France when Smith blurts - 

“Superintendent. Did I get that right? Superintendent?” 

Jonathan ignores the sneering tone, and smiles politely. “Indeed.”

“And you are the superintendent of what exactly? Are not the colonizers of this country being sent back to where they belong?”

Jonathan feels as much as hears the sigh from Patrick, and he presses their knees together briefly. “I am Canadian, not English. I travelled to Egypt independently, and worked under Superintendent Jabari for some years. I was promoted on his retirement as the next most experienced officer.”

“And the most western officer,” Smith says, his smirk so smug that it crawls right under Jonathan’s skin. “No doubt that is a factor when it comes to keeping the natives in order.”

Jonathan takes a soothing sip of wine before answering. “I’m going to correct you, Mr. Smith. The, uh, _natives_ are able to keep themselves in order. It’s tourists that take up most of my time. I’m sure you know the sort. Rude, demanding, opinionated, intolerant, full of their own self-importance. Always going on and on, in the way that empty vessels do.” Jonathan takes another sip from his glass. “As I say, I’m sure you know the type.”

Smith gives a touché twist of his lips, and Jonathan, having control of the conversation, decides to keep it.

“It looks like a cabaret is about to start.” He turns to Patrick. “Why don’t we find a comfortable seat and get you that Gin Rickey?”

The next hour is more pleasant. Patrick moves with Jonathan as if it’s a given that they stay together, and they have an agreeable, if somewhat dull conversation with Sir Easton about tourism as an industry. Sr. Bernadine and Dr. Sauer appear to be happy sipping their coffee and swaying a little to the piano being played by a musician who has introduced herself as Delilah Masud.

Pennington has returned to his papers, even though they seem to be bringing him little joy, and Smith has distanced himself, reading a book from a sofa in the corner.

“Is it good?” Sr. Bernadine calls when the music lulls. “Your book, I mean, Mr. Smith. Are you enjoying it?”

“I rather am,” Smith says. “Have you read Karl Marx, Sr. Bernadine?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m more interested in mysteries, rather addicted to them, I must admit. My only vice, really.”

Jonathan can feel Patrick perk up with interest. “Oh, have you read Jacqueline E. Jane?”

“Have I? _Have_ I?”

She has, she’s read everything ever written by Jane, who is absolutely one of her favorite writers. Patrick, of course, wants to hear more, and ups the ridiculousness of the conversation by liberally throwing out phrases such as ‘literary genius’ and ‘contemporary masterpieces.’ Although, going by the grin on his face, most of it is for Jonathan’s benefit.

“And what of you, Superintendent? Have you read any of her novels?” Sr. Bernadine asks.

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Jonathan answers, but is spared making any further regrets by the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Doyle. There are some ruffles and gasps, and even Deliliah’s fingers still on the piano keys. It appears that Linnea Doyle knows how to enter a room, silencing it with her beauty. Her dress is black crushed velvet, and sets off the diamond choker around her neck. All eyes are on her as she crosses the floor with an ease that suggests such admiration is her due. Her husband trails behind, pale and uneasy, but every bit as handsome as Patrick said.

“Linnea, my dear,” Pennington begins, rising with his sheaf of papers. “I was hoping --”

“Not now, Teddy,” Linnea says, dismissing him with a slight wave of her hand. “Good evening everybody. Superintendent Toews, perhaps we could have a word.”

It’s not a question, so she doesn’t wait for an answer before turning to a small table near the piano. Jonathan and Simon follow, obediently, and then are left waiting while Vikram appears with two drinks and some matches to light Linnea’s cigarette.

“Might I introduce my husband, Mr. Simon Doyle,” Linnea says through a plume of smoke. The two men nod to one another, and Simon looks so wretched that Jonathan is compelled to ask if he’s okay.

“Today was the most dreadful shock,” Simon says. His voice is softer than expected, his accent regional, but not one that Jonathan recognizes. “I could have lost… it could have…”

His folds his hands to stop them shaking, and Linnea places her own hand over them. “This is why we missed dinner. Simon was too upset to eat, or even to be in company, and of course, we were worried about…” She sweeps her glance around the room before looking meaningfully at Jonathan.

“Miss Belfort hasn’t been here tonight,” he says.

Linnea nods as if she already knows that. “I cannot tell you how pleased I was to hear that you were onboard. I didn’t even know you were such good friends with Mr. Kane.” She pauses, an invitation for Jonathan to add any details, but moves on when he doesn’t. “It’s of great comfort to us both that you’re here. So, we invite you to name your price.”

“My price?” 

“It is yours, no argument,” Linnea says. “Maybe you’d like to think about it while we discuss tomorrow’s itinerary. As I’m sure you know, we have a stop at Beni Suef, and Simon and I were hoping to spend the day there tomorrow. You’ll be ready to leave at 10a.m.?”

Jonathan backs away from another stream of smoke. “Mrs. Doyle,” he begins, wanting to be deliberate with his words. “It would be true to say that I am here partly because of our conversation earlier, but I’m mostly here because of what happened in the Old Town.”

“Yes! Where you saw someone try to kill me. I told you, I need protection --”

“You may not have been the intended victim. That boulder could have struck Miss Belfort.”

Linnea’s eyes widen. “What would make you think that? Who would want to kill Julia?”

“Who would want to kill you?” Jonathan counters. “Because it definitely wasn’t Miss Belfort who pushed the boulder from the roof today, and yet you said that she was the only enemy you had in the world.”

“I don’t know,” Linnea says, and she shrugs, but it’s more like a full body shudder. “Perhaps Julia paid some beggar to do the dirty work for her.”

“And then put herself directly into harm’s way? That makes no sense. But I plan to get to the bottom of whatever is going on here, don’t worry, Mrs. Doyle. Unfortunately, that means I won’t have the time to be your personal bodyguard.”

Linnea’s face creases with frustration. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

“I’m sure I just clearly said that we cannot.” Jonathan stands and nods briefly before making his way back to Patrick. 

“That looked like fun.” Patrick nudges a fresh drink towards him, and Jonathan lifts it gratefully. He’s about to say just how much fun it was when Pennington swears loudly beside him.

Sir Easton leans forward, frowning. “Sir, I’d ask you to moderate your language while we are around…uh, nuns. Ladies?”

Sr. Bernadine doesn’t appear to be the slightest bit offended. “Indeed, I am both a nun and a lady,” she says with a smile. “And I can assure you, I’ve heard much livelier language on the streets of Cairo. I barely even notice it anymore.”

Pennington mutters an insincere apology, his eyes on what is another missed opportunity. Linnea and Simon have moved from their table, and are dancing together in the middle of the floor.

“I was hoping to catch her for a minute when you were finished,” he grumbles to Jonathan. “She’s just so damned difficult to get hold of.”

“Perhaps it’s because she’s on honeymoon,” Jonathan says mildly. “And would rather pay attention to her husband than some paperwork.”

Pennington sniffs. He’s a big man, in height and girth, his jacket too short in the sleeves and too tight on the shoulders. His hair is bizarrely parted to give the illusion of more than is actually there. It isn’t at all convincing.

“It must have been quite a shock for you to run into Mrs. Doyle while on her honeymoon, in Egypt of all places,” Jonathan continues.

Pennington’s eyes narrow, and he attempts to glare Jonathan down. “I’d say surprised,” he says when Jonathan refuses to be intimidated. “Pleasantly surprised. She did, uh, write me about it, but I’d already left New York for Africa at that stage.”

“It was most fortunate that you happened to have all her documents with you.”

“That’s really none of your business,” Pennington snaps. “But if you must know, I had them sent over after we met, Toews. Is that what your name is? Toews?”

Jonathan’s smile is pleasant. “Superintendent Toews. You don’t have to use my title, of course, but you should know it. _Superintendent_ Toews.”

Pennington’s throat works around a tight swallow. “Excuse me,” he says, and gathers his belongings. “I must say goodnight.”

When he stands. Sr. Bernadine does likewise. “I think I might retire myself,” she says, straightening the large rosary beads that are wrapped around the waist of her habit. “Goodnight everybody.” 

There’s a round of subdued goodnights, with everyone feeling the sleepy effects of a long day. Dr. Sauer is dozing in his chair, his hands clasped on his substantial belly. John Smith is still mostly behind his book, but he’s slower to turn the pages. Sir Easton hides a yawn behind his hands, blinking blearily at Linnea and Simon still swaying closely together on the floor. 

“ _Darlings_!” 

Julia Belfort wakes the whole room when she walks -- staggers -- towards the dancefloor, martini glass high in the air and spilling its contents freely. Jonathan’s stomach twists when he clocks how drunk she is, the cuffs of her red silk dress wet and stained. 

“I do love this song,” she slurs. “...latest thing, the oldest and the...dah-dah-dahdah… I only hope that dah-dah-dahdah… love’s story to you. Hello, Linnea. Hello, Simon. How are you enjoying Egypt? It’s rather wonderful isn’t it? I always wanted to come here. In fact, Simon was going to bring me here on our honeymoon. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“You’re drunk, Julia,” Linnea says, pulling away from her husband. 

Julia smiles meanly. “And you’re a whore, Linnea.” 

There’s a collective gasp around the room, and Linnea steps back as if the words have slapped her. Simon reaches out, but she turns from him, running out the door.

“Julia,” Simon hisses. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

“Too far,” Julia shouts at his retreating back. “You took another woman on my honeymoon. I’d say that’s too far. And by the way, you look awful, darling. Is Linny keeping you up late at night? Wearing you out, is she?... Oh that’s right, run away. You’re very good at that.”

She spins around, stumbling and holding her hands out to steady herself. The last of what’s in the glass -- an olive -- falls to the floor, and Julia stares mournfully at it. “Who wants to buy me a drink?”

“Perhaps you’ve had enough,” Smith says, moving to stand and looking around awkwardly.

“Have I?” Julia squints as if bringing him into focus. “Oh, it’s you, the bolshie communist. You’re a horrid little creature. I’ve heard you, talking and talking about the … Patrick! Darling, you’ll buy me a drink, won’t you? And… oh goodness, is that you, Supertenin… Super…the policeman from today. Whatever are you doing… oh, did Linny hire you? What a --”

A very harassed Vikram enters stage left, adding to the tragi-comedy with his waving arms and stricken face. “Miss Belfort! There you are!”

“There _you_ are. I thought you went to get me a drink. I’ve been waiting.”

Vikram approaches carefully, until he can cup a hand around her elbow. “But Miss Belfort, I did. There is a large gin awaiting you in your cabin.”

“Is there?” Julia leans in, letting him take some of her weight. “Well, that’s where I need to go then.”

“Poor guy,” Smith says when Vikram has led her away.

“Indeed,” Dr. Sauer agrees. 

“Terrible,” Sir Easton says. 

Patrick says quiet, and Jonathan has a feeling that he’s uncomfortable. His eyes are downcast, and he’s chewing his lip.

“Time to call it a night, gentlemen,” Jonathan suggests.

*

Patrick opens the door of their cabin, and then steps back to allow Jonathan walk in first. Or fall in first.

“What in…” 

He doesn’t even know what he’s tripped over, not until Patrick bends to pick it up. “Oh,” he says. “It’s my latest novel. Sr. Bernadine must have left it here for you.”

Jonathan takes it from him. “Is the one that the critics were, what was it you said, in the agonies of ecstacy about the intricate plot and the diverse characterization, and surely this will be the one to steal the Pulitzer Prize?”

“It’s almost as if you read the reviews,” Patrick says, grinning.

“It’s almost as if you made them up,” Jonathan scoffs. “But I guess I’m about to see for myself.”

They step inside, Patrick flipping on the light as Jonathan closes the door.

“You want the bathroom first?” Patrick asks.

“Sure… but. That was something, wasn’t it? What happened with Mrs. Doyle and Miss Belfort?”

Patrick shakes his head and shucks his shoes. He stands up on the balls of his feet, as if stretching out his toes and calves. “Something has happened most days. It’s even been entertaining a time or two.” He grunts and rocks back on his heels. “But that’s the first time it’s been really nasty, and I hate to think that it might get even worse. I feel bad for them all. They’re not _terrible_ people, you know?”

Jonathan doesn’t know. He thinks they all might be at least a little bit terrible.

“I mean, some people think Linnea is awful for stealing her best friend’s future husband,” Patrick continues. “In so much as you can ‘steal’ another person. Some people think that Simon is a bastard for leaving Julia for her best friend. Some people think that Julia should go away and leave them to get on with their lives. But I think that there’s no villain here. You don’t always get to choose who you love, and not everyone gets a happy ever after.” He shrugs. “It’s a messy, complicated business.”

Jonathan isn’t sure if he’s speaking generally or specifically. What exactly is messy and complicated? This bizarre triangle? Or love itself?

“Have you ever been married?”

Patrick’s lips twist. “No, I’m all alone.”

He moves then, to press on the service bell, and Jonathan begins gathering up what he needs for the bathroom, the odd phrasing turning over in his mind. _I’m all alone_. Not -- I’m single, or I’m a bachelor, or not yet. 

“Uh, me too,” Jonathan says, and closes the door on Patrick and that conversation. By the time he gets out, there’s tea on the bedside lockers and extra pillows on both beds. 

“Help yourself,” Patrick says, and takes his turn in the bathroom. 

He clearly means for Jonathan to help himself to tea, because the bed nearest the door has already been claimed, the blankets pulled back in what’s clearly a marking of territory. Not that Jonathan minds, bouncing a little on the other mattress. This is definitely more comfortable than the bed he climbed out of this morning. He poofs up the pillows, pours himself some tea, and lies back with _A Murder is Announced._ It’s an easy read, and he’s soon smiling at how Patrick’s personality is all through his writing. The tone is quick paced, sassy, dry, and a little on the dramatic side. The setting is Badger Cove, where Dulcie Cotterage, resident amateur sleuth, is reading to her nephew Timothy from the morning paper. They’re trying to decide what to make of an advertisement that’s been placed in the personals claiming that a murder will be committed this evening at High Hill House. It’s likely to be a stunt or perhaps a performance of sorts. Not that it would hurt to go along, see what’s going to happen. But first, Timothy needs to find the cat, Wordsworth.

“Why does the cat only have three legs?” Jonathan asks when the bathroom door opens.

“Badgers,” Patrick says.

Jonathan can feel his nose wrinkle. “Badgers...oh my… what, are you… cold?” 

“No, why?”

“Why? You’re wearing more clothes to bed than you did to dinner.”

Patrick looks down at himself and then over to Jonathan. “At least I’ll be prepared if we have to leave the cabin in a hurry.” He nods at Jonathan’s bare legs. “If you have to go out there like that, Vikram will need the smelling salts.”

“I’m sure you could lend me one of your twenty dressing gowns,” Jonathan says, plucking at his knee-length shorts. They’re not _that_ scandalous.

“Two, actually,” Patrick says, shaking off the navy waffle robe and placing it at the foot of the bed. He’s still wearing a cobalt blue kimono wrapped over paler blue pyjamas, the slate-grey slippers. It’s a lot of coordination, and it’s very...Patrick. 

It’s a strange thing to think, considering that they only met fourteen hours ago. And this should also feel strange -- sitting on beds barely ten inches apart, sipping tea, and getting ready to settle for the night. It should feel strange, this domesticity, this casual intimacy.

_Should_. But doesn’t.

“I’m going to work for a while, if that’s okay,” Patrick says, fishing a notebook out of a drawer. “I just need to write down a few ideas.”

It’s absolutely fine with Jonathan, who goes back to his book, where the advertised murder plays out as promised. Even though the owner of the house, Virginia Lithgow, insists that she has no knowledge of any ad in any newspaper, she invites all the curious callers into the drawing room. The doorbell rings, the lights go out, and a shot is fired.

“I think I know what the murder weapon is,” Jonathan says, turning to smile at Patrick. But Patrick’s already sleeping, chest rising and falling rhythmically. All Jonathan has to do is lean over to tug the notebook from his slack hand and lift the pen that’s lying near his leg. He leaves both beside the novel on his own locker, and then lies down, facing Patrick. 

He doesn’t do this, typically. But tonight he gives himself permission, only this once, only for a minute. 

He looks. That’s all, just looks. Takes in the sweep of Patrick’s lashes above his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips, soft and barely parted, the shell of his neat ears, and the faint flush that stripes his skin.

_“You don’t always get to choose who you love, and not everyone gets a happy ever after... It’s a messy, complicated business.”_

Jonathan switches the lamp off.


	3. Bang Bang (my baby shot me down)

*

At breakfast the following morning Patrick announces that he won’t be leaving the boat today when it moors at Beni Suef. “I’ve got a few ideas that I need to work on. I really have to get something to my publisher soon.”

Jonathan’s unexpectedly disappointed. “I should go,” he says, pushing egg scraps around his plate. “If just to be the buffer between Miss Belfort and Mrs. Doyle.”

“No buffering required.” Patrick smiles over his coffee cup. “I saw Vikram preparing two food trays for room service this morning. He told me that one was for Linnea, and one was for Julia, as neither are disembarking today.” His eyebrows rise. “Julia’s tray was just coffee and crackers. And… if I’m not mistaken, that was the Doyles' cabin that I just saw Sauer going to. And my guess is that the good doctor is going to give Linnea a little something for her nerves.”

“He’s done that before?”

Patrick nods. “At least once. I saw him go into her hotel room in Cairo. Anyway, it’s very good news for both of us. Julia will be sleeping off a hangover, and Linnea will sleeping off a dose of barbital. Which means no drama, which also means that I’ll get some planning done, and you can enjoy a nice stroll around… wherever.”

“Wherever,” Jonathan repeats. “How are you possibly passing yourself off as a travel writer? It’s Beni Suef, and I’ve been living in Egypt for eight years, so I’ve been there a time or twenty. I think I’ll stay here with you today, and read my book.”

“My book, you mean.” Patrick beams, that same prideful smile that Jonathan is starting to find impossibly endearing.

“Hm,” is all he says, reaching for the coffee pot, biting the grin from his own lips.

“Good morning, comrades,” Smith says, stopping on his way past their table. “Are you ready to poke about in the lives of some less fortunate people today, trample through their lands and stare as if this is your own personal zoo?”

“No,” Patrick says immediately. “We’re staying here in protest. Would you like to join us?”

“That’s true,” Jonathan says. “Patrick and I are having an oppression free day, if you’re interested. There’s swimming and fishing for anyone who stays behind. We’ve been told that it’s all totally safe.”

Smith sniffs as if he’s smelled something bad. “I’m studying conditions on groundlevel,” he says. “Not hiding from them while waiting on cocktail hour. Also, the reason why it’s safe to swim is because the Nile crocodile has been hunted to near extinction.” He leaves then, more than a little smug with his parting shot.

“Think we lost the upper hand towards the end there,” Jonathan says, mock rueful.

“He’s insufferable,” Patrick scoffs.

“It's not completely wrong, though. To have a social conscience.”

“Doesn’t make him any less insufferable. And now he has me wondering if it’s too early for cocktails.”

“It is,” Jonathan says, watching as Smith joins Sr. Bernadine, who is possibly too polite to mock or rebuke him. “It’s like he’s playing, dressing up in activism to see how it fits. He’s all talk, but I’d say there’s very little action.”

Patrick finishes his coffee and sets the cup back down on the saucer. “I think his favorite part is making people feel bad about themselves. He’s enjoying the attention more than anything. And he loves to get a rise out of Pennington.”

Jonathan looks over at Pennington, alone and once again surrounded by papers. He’s not paying much attention, to them, or to the untouched breakfast in front of him. The expression on his face is one of sick terror. It’s probably very easy to get a rise out of him right now.

*

The boat docks for thirty minutes at Beni Suef just after midday, and then sails about a mile south before dropping anchor where the river suddenly widens.

“Are you going to swim?” Vikram asks, depositing two large lemonades onto a table. “We do not get any spiny eels around this part of the river. At least, not many. But do not worry, we have ointment.”

Jonathan snorts from behind his book while Patrick tells Vikram that they’re fine as they are for the moment. It’s not any sort of a lie, Jonathan cannot remember the last time he felt anywhere near this good. He’s sprawled out on a sunlounger on the upper deck with a cold drink and a good book. It’s blissfully quiet, just the lap of water as it hits the boat, and soft murmurs of background movements. The sun is high and it promises to hit an unseasonal seventy-seven degrees today. Too warm for shoes and socks, he decides. He sits up to remove them, stashing them under his chair.

“Shameless,” Patrick says, smiling down at this work when Jonathan looks over at him.

“I don’t think my bare feet will send anybody to the fainting couch.” His wriggles his toes and goes back to reading Patrick’s clever novel. He’s had somebody pegged as the murderer since early on, but she’s just been killed, too. 

“I thought it was Ellen,” he says. 

Patrick says nothing for a few seconds, absorbed as he is with the page in front of him. “Hm? Oh, right. Ellen. You thought she was the murderer?”

“Yeah, all that blurting out things from the past, and forgetting where she left the eggs or the keys. I was convinced that she was acting.”

Patrick smirks. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Jonathan.”

“Oh, you are scandalized by feet, but you quote Freud to me?”

Patrick laughs, but he’s not to be distracted, and Jonathan goes back to reading until he gets restless. He doesn’t even think Patrick notices when he gets up and goes down to the lower deck where some of the crew are fishing. Jonathan joins them in the shade and over the next couple of hours adds to the mountain of bolti, even snagging a few slippery perch. He begins to think about dinner, which reminds him that he hasn’t even had lunch, even though it’s long past the time. Vikram might be able to organize something, so Jonathan goes in search for him. On the way he spots Linnea Doyle just outside her own cabin, leaning on the door. 

Jonathan slows his pace and approaches carefully. “Mrs. Doyle?”

Linnea looks through him before at him, her eyes vacant and dull.

“Are you okay?”

She blinks a few times, as if she hasn’t heard him.

“Mrs. Doyle?”

“Is my husband here?” Her words aren’t slurred, just slow, careful.

“No, he left for the tour this morning. We’re going back to collect them later.” He keeps the specifics vague, wanting to see if she remembers the details. There’s something worrying about how confused she is.

“That’s right,” she says, suddenly relieved. “Beni Suef. Simon said they’d be back at six. What time is it now?”

Jonathan’s not fully sure. “I think it’s about three? I’m going to find Vikram, see if I can get some late lunch. Can I get you anything?”

“Some tea, maybe.” She pauses. “Have Hana bring it.”

It’s the kind of demand that had irritated Jonathan the first time they met, but it’s easier this time to smile and say of course. He finds Delilah, the singer, in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She’s a chef most of the time, she tells him, but she prefers music and is hoping to get a position on a cruise ship where she doesn’t have to do two jobs. 

“If you bring this tea to Hana, I can get some food ready for you and Mr. Kane,” she says, handing the tray to him. “Our room is on the left in the staff quarters. Do not be too alarmed to find her sleeping. She is the laziest creature I have ever happened upon.”

“You share a room with her?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Delilah adds a jug of milk to the tray. “You are ready.”

Jonathan finds Hana easily enough, and though she’s not asleep, she is sitting on her small bunk-bed, glaring at the wall.

“Your mistress has asked that you bring this to her.”

Hana turns her scowl on Jonathan and then on the tray before she rolls her eyes so hard they almost disappear into skull. “Fine,” she snaps.

Jonathan’s glad to get away. He collects another tray from Delilah, this one filled with falafel, kofta, hard boiled eggs, besarah, and topped with pitta and bataw breads. He’s followed by another steward who carries a pot of coffee and two martini cocktails.

Patrick’s eyes light up when they get to the upper deck. “I’m so hungry I was thinking about chewing my arm off,” he declares.

“Just as well we got here before you reached that level of drama,” Jonathan says, and that’s pretty much the end of any conversation for the next ten minutes, except for groans of appreciation, and the clattering of cutlery as they fight over the last falafel.

“So,” Jonathan says, handing Patrick a martini. “You going to show me what you’re working on?”

There’s what looks like a map in the center of the table, with counters, markers, and small index cards placed in an order that Jonathan’s sure makes perfect sense to Patrick.

“The hardest part,” Patrick says, smacking his lips around the salty rim of his glass. “The plot.”

“And how’s that going?”

“I’m done. Who, where, how, and most importantly, why. Once the ‘why’ came to me, the rest was pretty easy.” 

“What now? Do you type it up and then send it to an editor?”

Patrick shakes his head. “No, I write longhand. Can’t use a typewriter, too much strain on my wrist.” He lifts his left hand, palm up, showing Jonathan a faint silver line crossing the wrist. “See, here, where the scar is? I was saddling a horse when it spooked and charged off with my hand twisted in the reins. We were in a pen, so it couldn’t take me too far, but I couldn’t free my myself, and every time someone tried to help, it ran again. Took maybe an hour to get me untangled.”

Jonathan winces. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, almost sighing. “Never fully recovered. I mean, it’s fine for most things, but not the force and vibrations of a typewriter. Anyhow, it could have been so much worse.” He holds up his glass, and Jonathan does the same, clinking them together gently. “To being alive and to plotting a murder.” 

“Can I see?” Jonathan asks, wanting to get closer to the map, but not wanting to be intrusive.

“Sure. But it won’t make a lot of sense to you.”

It doesn’t, but Jonathan can make out bits. Dulcie is there, and Timothy, and the setting is Egypt, which would be expected. There rest is a mishmash of initials, numbers that might be ages, and different coloured tabs that could be connections of sorts. 

“You always start with motive?”

“Always,” Patrick says. “Most writers do. If you want people to invest in your story and in your characters, then things can’t be random. There always has to be a reason. I mean, it would be a very short and boring story if someone gets killed during a robbery, and that was it.”

Jonathan sighs. “That’s about ninety percent of the murders I work on. The ‘why’ is obvious.”

“Ah, but in fiction the motive is always hidden. There are, after all, only four motives for premeditated murder -- love, revenge, money, and fear -- so to keep the reader guessing, you must keep the motive underwraps. The rest works around that, and all the writer has to do is to show the reader what we want them to see, scatter the ‘how’ throughout the story, and then gather it all up at the end. What? Are you laughing at me?”

Jonathan walks back to where Patrick is leaning on the rail, and bumps their shoulders together. “I’m not laughing at you, I’m just enjoying your passion for murder.” He points to the table. “So, tell me, how did this one die?”

Patrick finishes his drink, chewing on the olive he’s tipped into his mouth. “Small needle. She thought it was a mosquito sting.”

“Neat and tidy, I like it. I wish I had more of those and fewer gruesome stabbings.”

“Ugh.” Patrick shakes his head. “I avoid stabbings. Can’t stand the sight of blood. Seriously, I would run from a nosebleed… oh, hello.”

Jonathan turns to see who he’s looking at, and finds a very sheepish Julia Belfort standing at the top of the stairs. “Hello,” she says, clearly embarrassed.

“Would you like to join us?” Patrick asks after an awkward pause. 

“I’d like to apologize.” She takes a hesitant step forward. “My behavior last night was --”

“Forgotten,” Patrick says, cheerful and kind. “Come on, what you need is some color in your cheeks. How about an improper game of darts? I was going to ask Jonathan, but I think you’d be a more worthy opponent.”

“Thank you,” Julia says, smiling a little. “It would be nice to have some company. But… I’d like to say something, to you, Superintendent Toews. If I may.” She steels herself with a deep breath. “It’s about what you said yesterday, about how there is nothing but misery for me here. Well, I know now that you were right, so I’m going to get off at Samalut tomorrow, and then make arrangements to return to England.”

“That’s wise,” Jonathan says, hoping he doesn’t sound too much like his own father.

She nods, oddly formal, and turns her attention to Patrick and their game of darts. “I should warn you,” she says. “I have excellent aim.”

Patrick grins and takes a mocking bow. “The gauntlet is thrown.’

Jonathan leaves them to it, settling back to finish Patrick’s book. The murderer, when eventually revealed, is a surprise, until Dulcie picks the clues laid out from beginning to end, and then it could never have been anybody else. It’s clever and occasionally funny, with a quirky ensemble, and a simple motive wrapped in layers of circumstance, opportunity, and red herrings. Jonathan’s going to find out if his local library in Cairo stocks any Jacqueline E. Jane novels, and if not maybe his mom might post some over to him.

He dozes after a while, the evening sun warm on his skin, the martini cocktail warm in his blood. Somewhere in the distance, Patrick is crying foul, undoubtedly outraged at being bested by the opponent more worthy than Jonathan.

*

Dinner is a curious affair. 

The boat moors at Beni Suef just after six p.m., but the boarders don’t arrive until almost eight. They’re a tired bunch, dusty and heat disheveled, and utterly irritated. The bus that was to bring them back hadn’t turned up, and they had to walk quite some distance to get here. 

It is decided that a dinner buffet will be laid on in the dining area for eight thirty, and that formal wear would not be required. Which suits Jonathan down to the ground -- dressing for dinner is merely a change of shirt, plus putting his shoes and socks back on.

The food is plentiful, tables almost weighed down with salads, breads and rice dishes, the fish that was caught today, grilled and plated up in generous fillets. There are deep bowls filled with kofta and bamia. It’s all served up after Vikram fills two trays for the Doyles who are eating in their cabin.

For most of the meal, there is little to be heard but soft murmurs of conversation and the scraping of cutlery or filling of glasses. There are stifled yawns, drooping eyes, and as soon as people eat, they make their excuses to leave.

“You must pardon me,” Dr. Sauer says, first to go, and almost stumbling from the cabin. Sr. Bernadine follows all but immediately, then Pennington, Sir Easton, and finally Smith, who even waves pleasantly on his way out.

“He’s a lot nicer when his belly is full and his feet are tired,” Patrick remarks.

Julia and Jonathan agree. There are just the three of them left, still somewhat fresh from their day of doing very little.

“A nightcap, perhaps?” Vikram offers, and no-one refuses. A gin for Julia, a martini for Patrick, and a soda water for Jonathan. 

“To new beginnings?” Patrick suggests, lifting his glass, and they drink to that.

“What will you do?” Jonathan asks Julia. “Where will you go when you get back to England?”

“I have an aunt,” she answers. “She lives in Brighton, by the sea, where she runs a motel. It’ll be good for me, to work, to have company, and fresh air, plenty of life. I’m feeling quite excited about it, actually.”

“Well, that calls for another toast,” Patrick declares.

Vikram checks if they need anything else, and when they don’t, he leaves. Jonathan’s thinking of going himself when Linnea and Simon walk into the dining room.

There’s a moment of perfect stillness, perfect silence.

“Linnea,” Julia says, standing just as Linnea makes a sound of agony, leaning back towards her husband.

“No, Linnea… please, if you would --” Julia begins to walk towards her, but stops when Linnea pushes at Simon.

“You said she wouldn’t be here,” she cries. “You said there would be nobody here.”

Simon takes a step back, his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “Darling,” he says, in the same tone used to calm a distressed child. “I didn’t know. I thought everybody had gone to bed. I thought -- Linnea, please… Linnea!”

Linnea shrugs his hands away and runs out the door, her body racked with sobs.

Patrick exchanges an awkward look with Jonathan, but otherwise they’re frozen again until Julia speaks.

“Simon.”

“Don’t!” Simon’s hand rises, palm out to ward off anything Julia might say. His fingers stretch and curl until he’s pointing just one at her. “You are a poisonous, drunken _bitch_.”

“Hey, now,” Patrick says.

“Yes, I think that’s enough,” Jonathan says. “Mr. Doyle --”

“No,” Simon shouts. “It’s long past enough. It was enough when she followed us to Rome, and then to Sicily. It was more than enough when she came to our hotel in Athens, and then tried to sit with us at dinner in Izmir, and then appeared at the archeological site in Paphos. It was far more than enough when she followed us to Cairo, started to stalk our tour, came aboard this boat, and called my wife a… a…” He stops, almost sagging, and shakes his head at Julia. “What more do you want? Our honeymoon is ruined, I am unhappy, Linnea has stopped eating, she can’t sleep, she feels violated, humiliated, as if everyone is talking about her. How much more do you want?”

Julia’s head shakes. “No, Simon, you don’t understand. Superintendent, Patrick, tell him about what I said, tell him --”

“Maybe this will be enough,” Simon cuts in. “Maybe I should have said this a long time ago, but I was -- stupidly -- trying to spare your feelings. Still, here it is -- I don’t love you, Julia. I love Linnea, and have done since the moment I laid eyes on her. In fact, the speed with which I fell in love with my wife makes me think that I never actually loved you at all.”

Julia staggers back, hunching over as if Simon’s physically assaulting her with his words. “That’s not true, Simon, that’s --”

“Please leave, Mr. Doyle,” Jonathan says, trying to get between them, to take Simon out of Julia’s line of vision. “I understand that you are upset, but this is cruel…”

“No.” Simon wags a finger at Jonathan. “Sometimes the truth is cruel, and here’s some more of it. I was miserable with you, Julia. You smothered me. I couldn’t do anything, but you were there, clutching at me, grabbing, pulling, and I hated it. I hated --”

Julia spins and lifts her purse from the table. Jonathan thinks that she’s about to storm out, but then her purse thuds to the ground, and when he looks at her again, there’s a pistol in her hand, the muzzle pointed straight at Simon. 

“You don’t mean that,” she says, barely above a whisper. “You don’t mean that, Simon. Take it back. Take it back or I will kill you. So help me god, I will kill you where you stand.”

Jonathan edges closer to her. “Miss Belfort,” he says, calmly, despite his racing heart. “Julia. Put the gun down. There’s no harm done --”

“There will be no harm done, Superintendent,” Simon sneers. His eyes are on Julia, and he doesn’t look at all afraid. “This is nothing but more drama.”

The shot rings out, and Simon falls back with a groan, half twisting across the sofa behind him. Julia throws the gun across the room and launches herself into Jonathan’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” she pants hysterically, her whole body shaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She keeps saying it, her voice muffled from pressing against his chest. 

There’s a lot happening, and Jonathan takes a second to focus on Simon, who is sitting up now, blood sludging through his fingers from where they’re pressed above his knee. He’s been hit in the lower thigh, which, while painful, is unlikely to be fatal.

“I’ll get Dr. Sauer,” Patrick says, green around the gills and unsteady on his feet.

It’s a good idea, but it leaves Jonathan without some much needed help when Julia starts to struggle in an effort to get to Simon.

“Simon, please. Oh, darling, you have to know that I didn’t mean it… Simon, I’m so sorry…”

“Get her away from me,” Simon grits, trying to move further into the sofa. He shouldn’t be moving at all, so Jonathan somehow gets Julia out the door and around to the port deck. She stops a few times and leans over the boat’s railings to retch bile into the river. She is quiet, however, and Jonathan’s thankful for small mercies. The last thing this chaos needs is more onlookers. 

He’s surprised not to see Patrick when he rounds the corner, but they do meet Sr. Bernadine walking down the deck towards them.

“What is it, child?” she says to Julia, who collapses in her arms.

“There’s been an accident,” Jonathan says, choosing his words carefully and keeping his voice low. “Would you mind taking Miss Belfort into her cabin?”

Sr. Bernadine looks like she wants to know more, but she nods and guides Julia away just as Patrick appears with Vikram.

“I knocked on Sauer’s door,” Patrick says. “But he didn’t answer, and I don’t want to wake the entire boat.”

Vikram has a key, and he opens the door for Jonathan. The room is dark and quiet, except for the deep snores of Dr. Sauer. Jonathan calls him softly, then a little louder when he gets no response. When there’s still nothing, he walks further inside, feeling his way carefully in the dark.

“Dr. Sauer… Dr. Sauer… _Dr. Sauer_ …”

In the end, Jonathan has to shake him until his eyes open, blinking groggily.

“I’m sorry to wake you like this, Doctor, but we need your help. Simon Doyle has been shot.”

*

Less than an hour later, a mostly intact bullet is dropped into the dish Jonathan is holding.

“That is as much as I can get," Dr. Sauer says. “There may be small fragments, but the biggest concern is that the thigh bone is broken. I cannot be certain until we get to a hospital with x-ray, but given the pain he is in, I would say it is certainly so.”

Jonathan looks down at Simon, feeling a wretch of sympathy for him. His eyes are mostly shut, the effect of the strong opioid administered before he had been moved to Sauer’s cabin. His skin is a waxy yellow, and he smells strongly of the vomit on his chin and chest.

“Gentlemen,” Vikram says, entering after a cursory knock on the door. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Some warm water, please,” Jonathan answers. “And we need to think about getting Mr. Doyle to a hospital. We should probably turn the boat around and return to Cairo.”

Vikram thinks before answering. “If I may, Superintendent. There is a cholera outbreak in the hospital in Cairo.”

“I know that, but it’s still the nearest hospital.”

“Forgive me, but there is a hospital in Luxor. If we sail there directly, we can arrive in about fifty-five hours from now. It is but a day in the difference between here and Cairo.”

Jonathan looks at Dr. Sauer, who shrugs. 

“He is young and healthy. He will survive an extra day on a boat. He will certainly not survive cholera. We will immobilise his leg as best we can.”

“And Mrs. Doyle?” Vikram asks. “Should we tell her about what has happened?”

Jonathan shakes his head. “Let her sleep as long as she can. If she does wake up and becomes concerned, she’ll press the service bell. If that happens, let me know.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Also, have you seen Mr. Kane?”

“He is next door with Miss Belfort and Sr. Bernadine.” 

“That’s good,” Jonathan says mostly to himself. Hr turns his attention back to Dr. Sauer who is embarrassed to be caught yawning.

“I am afraid that it has been a long time since I was needed in the middle of the night, Superintendent.”

Jonathan wishes he could say the same. 

*

Patrick finds him in the dining room a short time later.

“Hey,” he says, nodding at the brandy in the Jonathan’s hand. “In for a nightcap?”

“No,” Jonathan says, moving up on the sofa to make room for Patrick. It’s almost ridiculous how pleased he is to see him. “It’s not what I came in for. I came in for the gun. I remembered it when I was leaving Dr. Sauer’s cabin. Julia threw it on the floor, and none of us picked it up.”

Patrick nods. “Good thinking. Where is it?”

“It wasn’t here.”

“What?” Patrick’s eyes widen, and he looks to where they last saw the gun lying. “Where’s the other sofa?”

“Vikram had it taken away because it was soaked in blood. He was here when the stewards moved it, and he doesn’t remember seeing a gun. He’s gone to check with the staff.”

“Huh. But who would have taken it?”

Jonathan shrugs. “I was making a list of who didn’t take it, and that’s me, you, Doyle, Julia, Sauer and Sr. Bernadine. That’s for sure. And it’s unlikely that Vikram or the stewards took it. Which leaves Pennington, Sir Easton, Smith, Mrs. Doyle, Hana, or Delilah. You didn’t see any of them wandering about in the last hour or so?”

Patrick shakes his head and reaches over to tap sympathetically on Jonathan’s leg. It’s an odd gesture, although not an unwelcome one. “What are you going to do?” 

“Hope,” Jonathan scoffs, lifting the glass to his mouth and wincing as the brandy burns his throat.

“Hope?”

“That no one else gets shot.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“I think it’s a certainty.”

“You want to know what I think?”

Jonathan turns to find Patrick with his head tilted towards him, so close that he can make out the natural kohl line on Patrick’s lower lashes. “What do you think?”

“Sr. Bernadine isn’t a nun.”

Jonathan groans. “This again, Patrick?”

“Yes, Jonathan, this again.” Patrick twists to the side, leaning on his hip. “Are you catholic?”

“Yes?”

“Me, too. Julia Belfort is not catholic, but she begged Sr. Bernadine to pray with her, or well, for her. So, we started a decade of the rosary, and Sr. Bernadine knew all the words by rote . _But_. She mixed up the order. The beginning is the Apostles’ Creed, Our Father, three Hail Marys, and then the Glory Be, but she did the Apostles’ Creed, the Glory Be, three Hail Marys, and then the Our Father.” He holds his hands out in triumph, and Jonathan snorts.

“Maybe there are different ways of saying the rosary?”

“Well, first of all, you are clearly a terrible catholic because second of all, the rosary is universal, Jon.”

He’s not wrong, Jonathan is a pretty terrible catholic. “What makes you so good at it?” he says, teasing.

“Ten years an altar boy. And my mom used to send me off to the Legion of Mary when I was acting out.” Patrick pauses to laugh softly. “There was a year where I was there at least three times a week. Anyhow, the point is when you’ve said the rosary that amount of times, it becomes automatic. Even if she forgot where she was, the second she touched the large bead, she should have immediately known that it meant the Our Father. And I’m sure you’ve seen that rosary she wears like a belt, the beads on it are huge.”

Jonathan hums without enthusiasm.

“I have to say,” Patrick grouses, wind taken somewhat from his sails. “I expected a bit more excitement for my not-a-nun-Bernadine exposé.”

“I’d be more excited if I knew there was any way she could have gotten hold of the gun.” Jonathan sighs, and knocks their knees together companionably. “How was Julia when you left?”

“She calmed down eventually, even more when Dr. Sauer called in and gave her some veronal. _Sister_ Bernadine is going to stay with her through the night.”

Vikram comes back in then, and if he thinks it strange that Jonathan and Patrick are seated so closely together, it doesn’t show on his face. “Superintendent, I have spoken to the stewards, and as I suspected, they did not see a gun.”

That’s not a big surprise to Jonathan, who is sure it was taken before any cleaning was done. “And you trust these men?”

“Yes,” Vikram says simply.

Patrick stands up and gestures to the sofa. “Sit down, Vikram. You look like you could do with a drink. I know I could.”

“Oh, Mr.Kane, please allow --”

Patrick cuts him off with a frown and a severe shake of his head. He walks to the bar and collects two tumblers and a bottle of gin. Vikram, having nothing else to do, sits down beside Jonathan and is soon sandwiched by Patrick on the other side of him.

“Here,” Patrick says, passing a glass to Vikram and then pouring a healthy slosh for all three of them. “Let’s drink to, I don’t know, calmer days on the Karnak. Especially for you, Vikram.”

They all drink, Vikram draining his glass in one gulp and then holding it out for Patrick to refill. “Respectfully, Mr. Kane, in terms of crazy days on the Karnak, this one doesn’t even make it into the top ten.”

“The joys of working for rich people,” Jonathan drawls.

“Indeed,” Vikram says, lips curving.

*

When Jonathan comes out of the bathroom after getting ready for bed, Patrick is already asleep. He’s also lying on the edge of his mattress, so when Jonathan gets under the covers and mirrors the pose, there’s only about a foot of space between them. They’re not touching at all, but Jonathan's very aware of the physicality of Patrick beside him, the heat of his body, the rise and fall of his breathing, the scent of peppermint underscored with liquor.

It should be enough to keep him awake, but it’s exactly what he needs to fall asleep.

He dreams of guns and blood, of bodies from the past, a teenager standing beside her slain brother, killed in an argument over livestock. She’s screaming, her face contorted with agony, and Jonathan can’t comfort her, can’t stop her from howling, can’t help her --

His eyes fly open but the screaming doesn’t stop. Patrick’s awake too, looking from the door to Jonathan, clearly alarmed.

“I think Mrs. Doyle is awake,” Jonathan says, pushing himself up and out of bed.

But it sounds wrong even as he says it. These are not screams of dismay, but rather bloodcurdling terror. 

“ _Madame… Madame… oh, Madame._

Patrick gets up too, stuffing his feet into slippers and grabbing his dressing gown. “I bet you’re regretting those pyjamas now,” he says, waving at Jonathan’s shorts while he walks to the door.

* 

(chapter 4 teaser

Mrs. Doyle isn’t awake.

Mrs. Doyle is dead.)


	4. We Are Detective

*

Mrs. Doyle isn’t awake. Mrs. Doyle is dead in her bed.

“I would say for between six and eight hours,” Dr. Sauer says. He points to the hole just beneath Linnea’s ear. “Shot at close quarters, pistol pressed against her flesh. See the scorch marks? No sign of struggle, she is settled on her side. I would say that she was not awake when she was killed.”

To somebody standing at the door, it might look like Linnea is simply asleep. Somebody like Patrick, who hasn’t come forward to have a closer look. “Suicide?” he calls across the room. He sounds almost hopeful.

“No weapon,” Jonathan says.

“Her hands are under the blankets. Also the position of the body.” Sauer’s head shakes. “No, it is all wrong. This is most certainly a murder.”

The word hangs heavy, the first time anybody has said it.

“Do you think it was the same gun that was used to shoot Mr. Doyle?” Jonathan asks.

“I cannot say for certain if it is the exact same gun, but I would say with confidence it is the same model.”

Jonathan sighs and looks around the room, looking for something unusual, apart from the dead body. “She was having trouble sleeping, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” Sauer says. “I had prescribed for her some veronal power to help her to sleep. She was under a lot of stress with all the trouble between her and Miss Belfort. I gave to her just under one gram yesterday morning, so she probably slept until early evening.”

“She didn’t,” Jonathan says. “She was awake around three in the afternoon. She was groggy and a little confused, but she was awake. She asked me to get her a tray of tea.”

“That is unusual,” Sauer says, tapping his chin. “Perhaps she did not take it all. Or maybe she had a tolerance for the powder, and the effects did not last so long. It is very common, you know. It is why I only prescribe one dose at a time when I do not know the patient well.”

Jonathan wouldn’t have thought Linnea a drug addict, but there are a lot of things surprising him lately. “Thank you, Doctor Sauer. Is Mr. Doyle still in your cabin?”

“Indeed, I had to administer to him another dose of opioid for the pain and shock when I told him that his wife was dead. And to Miss Hana, too. She was most distressed by the discovery of her mistress’s body.” Sauer shakes his head. “At this rate, I am going to run out of drugs before we get to Luxor.”

“Pity,” Patrick says. “I was going to ask for some.”

Sauer walks to the door, frowning at Patrick. “I do not appreciate your poor humor,” he says.

“You do, don’t you Jonathan?” Patrick says, when Sauer has left. “You appreciate my poor humor.”

Jonathan smiles despite himself. “I think I do. Want to step in a little further and help me look around?”

“Not really.” He pulls a face, as if a sneeze is coming. “I keep wondering what Dulcie Cotterage would do in this situation.”

“And?”

“First, she would want a nice pot of tea.”

“Do you want a nice pot of tea?”

Patrick huffs a laugh. “I want a nice cup of tranquilizer, but the good doctor is running low. Do you… do you think…” He gestures to the bed. “Would it be rude to, maybe… just… ”

Cover Linnea’s face, is what he means, and Jonathan does. That’s what it takes to get him to move away from the door.

“Look around,” Jonathan says, throwing an arm out in invitation. “If you see anything unusual, no matter how small, mention it.”

“Like that?” Patrick points to something near the foot of the bed, while keeping a clear distance.

Jonathan goes over, crouching down to pick up a small plastic bottle that is almost empty. There’s some brown, thick liquid clinging to the sides. “There’s no label but I think it’s make-up.”

“Show me,” Patrick says, gesturing for it, but not coming any closer to the bed. Jonathan brings it to him, amused when Patrick unscrews the lid and sniffs, as if it were a fine bottle of wine. “I can smell coconut,” he says, shaking a small drop of the liquid onto his skin and rubbing a brown stain across his thumb. “Thought so. It’s not make-up, it’s tanning lotion.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. My sisters are fond of it, but it’s very messy. It’s only ever stored and applied in the bathroom, which means that it shouldn’t be on the bedroom floor. Also, Linnea never wore tanning lotion. Her skin was pale, and at the first sign of sun, her parasol went up.”

“Good work,” Jonathan says, almost proudly. He takes a second to check under the sheets, just to make sure that Linnea hadn’t for some reason decided to apply tanning lotion last night, but the parts of her skin that he can see -- her hands, her neck, her face -- are nothing but deathly pale, and there was no residue on the bedlinen.

Patrick in the meantime has made his way to the dressing table and is holding a necklace up in the air, examining it critically.

“Linnea was wearing that the other night,” Jonathan says, walking towards him. “When she was dancing with her husband. It’s a really striking piece.”

Patrick hms. “It was the Athena Choker. Worth almost half a million dollars.”

Jonathan almost swallows his tongue. “Half a million dollars?”

“That’s what it went for at auction a few years ago, could be worth even more now.”

“You’re saying that thing is worth half a million dollars?”

“No,” Patrick answers. “I’m saying that the Athena Choker, that Linnea was definitely wearing the other night, is worth half a million dollars. But not this. This is an imitation -- an excellent imitation -- but certainly fake.”

Jonathan states at him, stunned. “Are you sure?”

“I am positive.” He drops the necklace into Jonathan’s palm. “This is much heavier than a diamond necklace would be, because it’s mostly glass. See?”

Jonathan doesn’t know anything about diamonds, and what they should weigh, so he doesn’t really see. “How do you know this?

“The Mystery in the Mine.”

Jonathan looks up. “What?”

“A Dulcie Cotterage Christmas special, set in South Africa. There’s a diamond that keeps disappearing and then turning up in unlikely places, such as the Christmas pudding and the nutcracker and the clove orange and the… oh, sorry. The point is, I went to Kimberley to do my research, and I learned about diamonds from actual miners and merchants.” Patrick grins suddenly. “Two clues! I found two clues already. I bet you’re glad I’m here.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes, although the answer is, yes, very much so. “Robbery then? Something premeditated? The necklace is replicated in advance of the cruise, with the plan to switch it for the real one, and by the time anybody notices, we will have left the boat? But why kill Linnea? If she was sleeping, why not leave her and take the necklace? Unless… she would have known it was not her necklace, and so she had to die?”

“That makes sense,” Patrick says. 

“But does it?” Jonathan isn’t so sure. “What if the boat is searched? That wouldn’t be unusual after a murder, and it’s not that big a boat. And how did he or she know the fake necklace would fool everyone? I mean, you saw through it immediately. Why not just wait and steal it just before we arrived at Luxor, and then Linnea wouldn’t have to be killed? It’s not just callous, it’s very risky.”

Patrick shrugs. “Murderers usually are callous, and there’s a half a million dollar payout. People have risked more for an awful lot less.”

There’s a knock on the door, Vikram’s voice coming from behind it. Patrick goes to let him in while Jonathan straightens the jewelry box. The edge of something pokes out from underneath it, and he pulls it free. It’s a photograph, or part of one, showing a young man with a dirty face and very white teeth. He’s grinning at the camera, his expression triumphant. The rest of the image has been cut away, but Jonathan can tell that there were once other people in it. There’s an arm around the man’s shoulder, resting just by his ear. 

“Gentlemen,” Vikram says, and Jonathan slips the photograph into his pocket. “The rest of the passengers have been informed of the shootings of both Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, and that we are moving directly for Luxor. They are also aware that you wish to conduct some interviews. My office is cleared and ready for you. I will arrange to have some coffee sent once you are settled.” He runs an eye over Jonathan. “I can also arrange for a dressing gown to be delivered before you leave this room.”

“You have spare dressing gowns?” Jonathan asks.

“We have _everything_ , sir,” Vikram says.

*

“Under whose authority do you ask these questions?”

“The authority of the Egyptian National Police,” Jonathan says, already bored with Smith’s petulance. “And you can answer to that here, or at your leisure in a cell at Luxor. But you should know that it might be a few days before I can get there to speak to you.”

Smith scoffs and jerks his chin towards Patrick. “Why is he here?”

“To take notes.”

“What? You can’t listen and write at the same time?”

Jonathan lifts his cup and sips his coffee. He waits. For all that Smith enjoys making people uncomfortable, he’s not at all comfortable with silence.

“Fine. I was in bed, asleep. I was tired. We did a lot of walking yesterday because the bus didn’t show up, and we had to make our own way back. Not that I minded. The worst part was listening to all the complaining from people not accustomed to doing anything for themselves, including walking. When I got back, I washed up, had dinner, and went to bed. You were still in the dining room when I left, and that was not later than half past ten. Satisfied?”

“Did you know Mrs. Doyle before this trip?”

“Personally, no. But I knew of her. Everybody did. She was famous for being rich and beautiful. Imagine, you get gifted someone else’s genes and someone else’s money, and that’s all people need to talk about you, or care about you. That’s the sum of what makes you interesting. Sickening, that’s what it is. And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter. I do hope you caught all of that, Mr. Kane.”

“I wrote down the interesting parts,” Patrick answers, holding up a completely blank page.

Sir Easton is next. “I know what people say about us - me and Linnea - that we were getting engaged, and all that other rot. The truth is that we barely knew each other, and she is so much younger than me. Our fathers were old business acquaintances, and we all attended the same parties for a time. But then my father went bust and... that’s really all there is to it. And I’m married, you know. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am utterly devoted to my wife.”

“But you’re on this vacation without her?”

“It’s not a vacation, Superintendent, it’s a scouting trip. We are opening up a large hotel in Dover, and I’m here to see how tours work, those on land and those on water. Vivienne is the sporty sort, she plays tennis and she swims, so she is busy promoting our hotel as a venue for tournaments. And while it might seem that I am the one with the more fun task, believe me when I say I’d do just about anything to be back in Blighty right now.”

He also had gone straight to bed last night and hadn’t heard anything until the screaming started this morning. “Terrible business,” he sighs.

Pennington is as pleasant as ever he is.

“I came home, I had dinner -- that damned buffet -- and then I went to my cabin and I stayed there all night.”

“With your papers,” Jonathan says mildly.

“What is your obsession with my papers?” Pennington snaps back.

“What is _your_ obsession with your papers, or should I say Mrs. Doyle’s papers?”

“ _How dare_ \--”

“I don’t know much about inheritance law, but typically an heir or heiress of a vast estate gains their full trust on their twenty-first birthday. Or when they get married. Am I right?”

Pennington nods, jaw set in tense fury.

“And Mrs. Doyle has just turned twenty, so you would not have been expecting to release her estate to her for almost another year. But all that changed when you found out she was married now, and she could legally take control of her own affairs.”

Pennington stands with such force that his chair almost falls over. “I don’t know what you are implying, you… you bastard. But I have already told you that I had begun my travels before Linnea’s marriage.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jonathan says baldly. “You are not subtle, Mr. Pennington, and I will find out what you are hiding.”

“Screw you,” Pennington shouts, storming out of the room.

Sr. Bernadine is much more sedate, in both temperament and language. “It is quite a shock to the system when one goes from walking many miles a day to being suddenly sedentary. I find myself walking around the deck after dinner just to tire myself out. Last night, I had done maybe five laps when I came across the commotion outside Dr. Sauer’s door.”

“You didn’t hear anything unusual while you were walking?” Jonathan asks. “Or see anybody?”

“Nothing, nobody.”

“And you stayed with Julia all night?”

“Yes. Mr. Kane sat with us for a while, and then Dr. Sauer came in a gave Julia a sleeping powder. She fell asleep soon after that.”

Jonathan nods and sits back in his chair. He’s going to have to get up and move around soon or his legs are going to cramp. “You’re from Jersey, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s an island in the sea between France and England?”

“In the English channel, yes.”

Jonathan switches languages. “ _You speak French_?”

“ _Fluently, as it happens. It’s my first language_ ,” Sr. Bernadine replies, not at all fazed by the abrupt change. 

“ _My mother is from Quebec. Even though my brother and I were raised in Manitoba, our mom made sure that we spoke as much French as we did English_.” He slows his speech, enunciates more than he would if he were speaking with family. 

Sr. Bernadine smiles warmly. “ _My mother is from Lyon, and she never spoke to me in any language other than French. My father is English, and he only speaks English with me. But did you know that there’s a third language in Jersey? It’s called Jérriais, and it is a strange dilution of French. Norman in origin. I speak that, too. Now, have I passed your little test, Superintendent?_ ”

“You have,” Jonathan says, smiling back.

“I just drew pictures while you talked,” Patrick says when she leaves. 

“Her story is checking out, Patrick. Her French is natural, and it’s better than mine.”

“It did sound better than yours,” Patrick says, and ducks when Jonathan throws a sugarcube at him.

Dr. Sauer is less than pleased to account for his whereabouts. “I was in bed when you broke into my room to wake me,” he snaps, peering over the glasses that have slipped down his nose. “And you were with me while I attended to Mr. Doyle. He stayed in my room all night, sleeping off a very strong sedative. I fell back asleep not long after you left and remained that way until the screaming started this morning.” He finishes with an indignant huff. “Such impertinence.”

“May I ask about the nature of your visit to Egypt?”

“What a ridiculous question! I am here on vacation.”

“Alone.”

“Quite.”

“Strange that,” Patrick says when Sauer’s footsteps march loudly into the distance. “What with him having such a sunny disposition.”

Jonathan can’t help but think that having Patrick around certainly makes listening to lies and dross somewhat bearable. Entertaining, even.

Delilah Masud is the first person to reveal something that makes them sit up and take notice. “I didn’t hear anything. The staff quarters are beside the kitchen, and it’s always noisy there. But I do know that Hana left our room at eleven and she was gone for at least fifteen minutes. And I know it was eleven because she complained about the time, and having to work so late. Even though she had all day to repair the purse.”

“Do you know anything about Hana’s relationship with her mistress?”

“She hated her,” Delilah says simply. “She made no secret of it. She says that Mrs. Doyle was standing in the way of her happiness, and that she was a terrible hypocrite.”

Jonathan nods, remembering Patrick telling him something similar. “And you, Miss Delilah, yesterday I got the impression that you and Miss Hana don’t get along very well?”

“I think her a wretched, spiteful thief.”

“Thief?” Jonathan says, careful not to look at Patrick. “What has she stolen?”

Delilah’s lips purse. “It’s small stuff typically, but my fountain pen and lace gloves went missing not long after she admired them. And she’d always come back from turning down her mistresses bed smelling of expensive perfume that she helped herself to.”

“What about jewelry?”

“Do you mean Mrs. Doyle’s jewelry?” Delilah’s head shakes. “No, it’s small stuff, nothing nearly so grand.”

“I thought we agreed not to mention the jewelry,” Patrick says when it’s just the two of them again.

Jonathan rolls his shoulders, and stretches his back out. “We agreed,” he scoffs. “You said, let’s just accuse everyone of stealing the necklace and see how they react, and I said, no, it’s best not to mention the necklace at all because it’ll lull the killer into a false sense of security if he or she thinks the fake necklace has fooled us, and then you said, my idea is better, and I said, stop talking or I won’t even let you in to take notes.”

“Exactly,” Patricks, grin wide and infectious. “We agreed.”

Julia Belfort is their last scheduled interview of the morning. She eases herself into the chair, and glances anxiously between Jonathan and Patrick. “It’s becoming a habit, isn’t it?” she says, voice low and shaky. “My making a frightful fool of myself and then apologizing. But I’m sorry, you’ll never know how sorry I am. I keep seeing it, over and over, and I wish I’d never… I wish --”

“It’s Mrs. Doyle we want to talk about,” Jonathan cuts in. 

Julia nods and twists at the handkerchief in her hands. “I’m sorry about Linnea, too. I keep thinking about poor Simon, he must be so heartbroken. It’s just so very dreadful.”

“It’s also exactly as you said it would be,” Jonathan says. “A bullet to the temple, her life taken.”

“I didn’t mean that. I didn’t…” She stops and takes a deep breath. “I did, I did mean it, when I said it. But I didn’t do it.”

And Jonathan really can’t argue with that.

*

“What now?” Patrick asks.

“Food,” Jonathan says. “We’ve missed lunch, and I’m starving. But first I’m going to see if Dr. Sauer will let me have a quick word with Simon. He’s more likely to allow it if it’s just me. While I’m doing that, you can check in with Vikram. He should be finished interviewing the stewards.”

“Why didn’t we interview the stewards?” 

“We?” Jonathan arches a brow playfully. “ _We_ didn’t interview them because they’re all natives, and they’ll be terrified of being blamed or scapegoated for crimes against rich, western people. It happens more often than you would believe. They’re also very unlikely to tell me if they saw a guest doing something they shouldn’t have. They trust Vikram. And I trust Vikram.”

It’s agreed that they’ll meet in the dining room, and whoever gets there first will order some food. Jonathan makes his way around to Dr. Sauer’s rather crowded cabin. 

“As you can see, Superintendent, my room is suddenly the sick bay,” Sauer says when Jonathan comes in. Simon is lying on the bed, his injured leg elevated and covered with a bandage. His face is sweaty and off-white, his eyes glassy with tears. On the chair near to him is Hana, sipping a glass of water while Sauer takes her pulse at the wrist.

“Calm yourself, child,” he scolds when Hana squirms.

“I am sorry,” she says petulantly. “But I keep thinking about my poor mistress and how...” She breaks off with a sob that Jonathan doesn’t find particularly convincing.

“You left your room last night at around eleven, is that right?” Jonathan asks, ignoring the tsk from Sauer.

Hana nods. “I was repairing Madame’s purse, and did not finish it until late. I knew that she wanted it for today, so I went to leave it in her cabin. But on the way, I heard a gunshot in the dining room, and I got very scared. You must understand, sir, that my family fled Poland during the great war, and to hear guns is a terrible thing. So I ran, looking for a hiding place, like I did when I was a very small girl.” She dabs at her mostly dry eyes. 

“Where did you hide?” Sauer asks, curious.

“Under the stairs beside Madame’s cabin. I hid in the shadows for what seemed like a long time, but really it was probably only twenty minutes. When I thought it was safe, I came back out and returned to my cabin. You can ask Delilah. She was still awake.”

“And you didn’t hear or see anything when you were hiding?” Jonathan asks.

“I did hear footprints and some voices leaving the dining room and going towards the kitchen, but I learned that this was you and Miss Belfort. But then I heard and saw nothing more.”

“And now that is enough,” Dr. Sauer says. “This child needs to eat, and I shall take her for some food. Superintendent Toews, when I return, my other patient will be resting and you will be leaving, yes?”

Jonathan promises that’s exactly what will happen, and then takes the chair that Hana was in. “Mr. Doyle, I cannot tell you how sorry I am for the loss of your wife.”

Simon nods and blinks at the same time, his movements slowed by the pain medication.

“And I need to ask you some questions. Is that okay?”

The answer is another nod.

“Can you tell me of anyone you know who would want to hurt your wife?”

Simon licks his dry lips, and he rasps out an answer. “No. No one. I had a horrible thought that it might have been Julia, but Dr. Sauer tells me that someone was with her when Linnea…” He stops, chin wobbling, unable to give the sentence an ending. Jonathan feels for him, not much older than his wife, widowed, in great pain, likely to be left lame. It’s a lot for a boy who probably isn’t even twenty-three.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan says again. “I have two more questions, and I’ll be quick. Mrs. Doyle’s necklace, the Athena Choker. What can you tell me about it?”

“I think it was a gift?” Simon says, screwing up his face. “But I don’t really know. Linnea had it for as long as I’ve known -- knew -- her. She wore it a lot. I think it might be worth a bit of money, but don’t ask me how much.”

Jonathan doesn’t ask, nor does he tell. “Thank you. Just one more thing” He reaches into his pocket and takes out the photograph he found this morning. “Do you know who this is?”

Simon takes it from him, squinting as he brings it closer. “That’s Alfie, Linnea’s brother. He died about three years ago, in Africa. He was shot dead during a robbery.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“Just that, really,” Simon answers, handing the photograph back to Jonathan. “It was something that was never spoken about.”

“Alfie was a diamond merchant, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you know where in Africa he was?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Thank you, Mr. Doyle,” Jonathan says, standing once more. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

“Would you do something for me, Superintendent?” Simon blurts, wincing as he tries to sit up a bit more.

“Of course. Some water, or…?”

“No, no. I…do you think you ask Julia to come see me before Dr. Sauer comes back?”

“Julia?” 

“Yes,” Simon whispers, eyes wet again. “I feel like such a brute, the awful things I said to her. I broke her heart when I left her for Linnea, and I didn’t understand what that really meant. But I get it now.” He looks down at his wedding ring, thumbs the band gently. “Now I know exactly how she felt. And I want to tell her how sorry I am. Will you ask her? Please?”

“If you’re sure?”

Simon nods again, and Jonathan is turning to leave when his name is called. “Yes?”

“Wait,” Simon says, brow furrowed. “I think I remember… that awful man, that… Pennington. He had some papers the other day. One of them was about a mine that Alfie owned or worked in, or I don’t know. The name struck me because my brother is married to an American girl, and her name is Kimberley. That was the name of the mine. Is that helpful?”

“Very,” Jonathan says, heart quickening. “Thank you.”

*


	5. Fool If You Think It's Over

*

Vikram clears aways the remains of what was a pretty spectacular late lunch, the kind of meal that makes Jonathan want to lie down and close his eyes for thirty minutes, and then thirty minutes more.

“Would you like some tea?” Vikram offers, and Jonathan refuses reluctantly.

“Will you have the stewards call on the guests, and tell them to assemble here in the dining room in the next ten minutes?”

Vikram bows, and leaves without any further questions.

“He really does trust his staff,” Patrick says. “He doesn’t think any of them are capable of murder.”

Jonathan’s inclined to agree. In his time as a police officer in Cairo, he’s found his Egyptian coworkers to be hardworking and conscientious. Theirs is a culture where being respectful is more important than being respectable by western standards. Honesty and family are valued above all else, including rough hands and bare feet.

It doesn’t even take ten minutes for the guests to gather together, all of them curious about the summons, eager for an update. The only two people who don’t show are Simon and Hana.

Delilah comes from the kitchen, and takes a seat that Jonathan offers her. Hana has probably gone back to bed, she says. “It would be just like her to take advantage of an unfortunate situation.”

Jonathan can’t help but think that ‘unfortunate situation’ undersells a somewhat more dire circumstance. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the murmurs. “As you know by now, Mrs. Doyle was found murdered this morning in her cabin. We have spoken to everybody onboard as part of our enquiries. The next step is to conduct a search of the boat, including all cabins and luggage.” The soft conversations grow in volume and complaint. “And,” Jonathan says, louder, “I also want you to submit the jackets you are wearing and the purses you are carrying right now for examination.”

That’s met with the expected outrage, which Jonathan allows for a minute. “We are looking for a gun,” he calls, raising his hands and his voice. “We believe it was taken from this room last night and used to murder Mrs. Doyle.”

Vikram does what he does best, managing the situation with timely trays of lemonade and coffee, and canapés to be served on the upper deck, where there will also be games of bridge and billiards.

Pennington subjects himself to the first search, which is uneventful apart from the colorful language. He’s not wearing a jacket, nor does he have a wallet, and his pockets are empty except for his cabin key. Sir Easton has nothing in his pocket other than a wallet, a key, and a piece of paper that might or might not be interesting, but is definitely not a weapon. Dr. Sauer, even more offended now than at interview, insists on patting himself down, scowling almost comically all the way through. Smith is the last of the male guests, and has nothing because private property is a nonentity in an era of collective ownership.

The three women are more cooperative, if a little hesitant. Delilah’s apron pockets are empty, and Julia’s purse contains items that Jonathan doesn’t know the name of, but none of them is a gun. Sr. Bernadine stands around awkwardly.

“There really is no way to…” She shakes the voluminous sleeves of her habit. “I could maybe ask Julia to…”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jonathan assures her.

“She could have a gun hidden in there,” Patrick says when they’re alone again. “And a necklace. Five guns and five necklaces.”

“I’m not looking in a nun’s dress, Patrick. Now come on, let’s get searching.”

The dining and lounge areas yield nothing, not so much as a stray button down the back of the sofa or a speck of dust on the wall paintings. Jonathan wonders what it would take to get Vikram to quit the hospitality industry and become a police officer.

There’s also nothing of interest in the kitchen, with the exception of Mrs. Doyle’s sheet covered body in the fridge. And the pies waiting to go in the oven that Patrick suspects, and fervently hopes, are apple flavoured. 

Jonathan clears the kitchen for dinner preparation, and he and Patrick make their way to the port deck. Pennington’s cabin is first, and it’s exactly as Jonathan imagined, messy and musty. 

“Ugh,” Patrick says, holding his nose. “Let’s do this one quickly.”

There are pages and booklets scattered everywhere, most of which make little sense to Jonathan. But they look through everything, upsetting more than a couple empty bottles of liquor as they go. 

“I think I can actually feel the stress of this room,” Patrick says, shuddering. “How can he live like this?”

There is no gun or necklace, but it’s Patrick who finds something unexpected -- a passage label on Pennington’s suitcase. “He travelled on the SS Normandie to Europe on the nineteenth of December. That’s almost a month ago.”

“So he was telling the truth then. He left the USA before the Doyles got married,” Jonathan says, surprised. “I’ll admit that I was hoping for a discovery that would prove that Pennington was hiding something. I didn’t think we’d find something that almost lets him off the hook.”

Patrick seems unperturbed. “We know he’s lying about something. All this does is tell us to look somewhere else. Where next?”

Sir Easton’s cabin is tidy but uneventful. The only find that might be interesting is a docket for a passage to Italy, dated last week.

“I wonder why he didn’t go,” Patrick says. “Maybe that was his original plan, but then he decided to stick around because of Linnea. I think he might still be in love with her, no matter how much he protests otherwise.”

“Really? What makes you say that?”

“The other night, when you were talking to Pennington, and Linnea and Simon were dancing. Remember? Well, I caught Sir Easton staring at Linnea, and he got a bit embarrassed, and said it was just that he’d never seen anything more beautiful.”

“Really?” Jonathan says again. “What about his wife?”

Patrick shrugs. “I don’t know. Although my sisters tell me that men are no better than farmyard animals.” He claps his hands loudly. “Now, let’s go and shake down the shady nun’s room.”

There is very little in Sr. Bernadine’s cabin, just some clothing, toiletries, a hairbrush, and two more of Patrick’s novels. 

“She may travel light, but she does travel with style,” Patrick says, delighted.

“She does seem to be your biggest fan. It’s a pity the feeling is not reciprocated.”

Patrick snorts, and then holds up something he finds in a drawer. “Glue. It’s a tube of glue. What would she want that for?”

“Maybe something broke?”

“Maybe,” Patrick agrees, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

The biggest find is next door, in a box at the bottom of John Smith’s closet. Inside is a collection of men’s jewelry that feels heavy and looks expensive.

“Real,” Patrick says, checking for stamps. “All of it.”

“So, Mr. Smith has been relieving some wealthy people of their property?”

“It sure looks like it,” Patrick says. He holds a signet ring close to his face and whistles appreciatively. “Some very, very, very wealthy people. See here? This is the Dahlish family crest. I know this because I researched crests for a novel about spies that had taken up residence in Badger Cove, and Dulcie Cotterage sent Timothy to infiltrate them and he found a crest belonging to an Spanish count… anyhow, sorry, while I was researching, I kept coming across this particular crest because the family are a big deal. They’re Rockefeller levels of money. But English, old money, the type that comes with titles. I think the current patriarch is Earl Dahlish, or maybe Viscount.” He looks up at Jonathan. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Let’s put it back for the moment. We can always relieve Mr. Smith of it before we disembark.”

There is no sign of anything else of interest. The same with Miss Belfort’s room, and Dr. Sauer’s. 

“We’ll try not to disturb you too much,” Jonathan says to Simon, who is awake, but listless and mostly quiet. “Did Julia come to see you?”

Simon nods and closes his eyes.

“That was miserable,” Patrick says when they’re finished, and still empty handed. “The poor man.”

Jonathan agrees and leads them back up the deck. “Just one to go, the staff quarters.” He’d left that one to last, hoping that Hana would be awake and up.

But Hana is neither of those things, Jonathan discovers when he opens the door.

Hana is very much dead and down.

*

“Two hours at the most,” Dr. Sauer says, sitting back on his heels. “She was stabbed in the neck, and the carotid artery was severed. That’s why there is so much blood.”

Jonathan looks out the open door. “You are okay out there, Patrick?”

“All good,” Patrick shouts back. “All good here on the deck where there’s no blood or bodies.”

“A knife with a smooth blade,” Sauer continues. “See how the cut is clean, no jagged edges or torn skin?”

Jonathan looks at where Sauer is pointing, mostly because he doesn’t want to look at Hana’s eyes, open and lifeless. “She didn’t struggle,” he says. “No damage to her nails, she’s still wearing her shoes, her hair is still pinned up.”

Sauer nods. “It does not seem like she was concerned about who was in the room with her.”

That sends a jolt through Jonathan, imagining her being so trusting with someone who was about to savagely murder her and then go without leaving anything behind, no footprints, not a thing out of place. It’s a clean hit, efficient and brutal.

“Ah, but what is this?” Sauer says, picking up something small from the ground.

Jonathan gestures for it, and it’s so small that Sauer has to put it into his palm. “The corner of a bill,” Jonathan says, lifting it almost to his eyes. “It’s a piece torn off a thousand franc note.”

“You think someone was stealing from her?”

“Where would a maid get a sum of money like that from? No, it’s more likely that she was the thief, and I think her roommate would agree with that.” Jonathan stands up and walks to the bed he saw Hana sitting on the other day. He pulls the blankets back and lifts the mattress, feeling around until his hand closes over a narrow strap. It only takes another tug to free a small purse, most certainly the one that Hana was returning last night, and then probably decided to keep. Mrs. Doyle is hardly going to come looking for it now. 

Jonathan stills, a flash of something shooting through his mind, quick, and gone before he can reach it. He gives himself a shake and opens the purse. Inside is a bottle of what looks like expensive perfume. He sniffs and then backs away. It’s cloying and sweet, and the scent travels unpleasantly from his nose to the backs of his eyeballs. Definitely an expensive bottle of perfume then, most certainly stolen from Mrs. Doyle’s cabin.

That niggle comes at him again, but he can’t grasp it. It’s frustratingly close, a fragment of a thought that just won’t stay long enough to take hold. He knows that the only way to catch it is to calm his addled mind, let his thoughts fade and fall. And well, fat chance of that happening right now.

He steps outside where Patrick is talking to Vikram. “... fish course after the entré, and then a salad and cheese course before dessert. I’ll help set the table. We’ll all eat together.”

“Very good, sir,” Vikram says, looking highly uncertain. “I will do my best.”

“Also, what kind of glue do you keep on the ship?”

“Glue, sir?”

“Yes, is it the one in the yellow tube?”

“I will check,” Vikram says slowly.

“Later, maybe,” Jonathan says, bringing both of them back to the important issue of the dead girl in the bedroom. “Doc says she was killed about two hours ago, which was before everyone gathered in the dining room for the searches to begin. Vikram, we don’t arrive in Luxor until tomorrow night, so I think it’s best not tell the other guests about Hana until the morning, especially as this is the second murder, and they’ll be frightened. You have four stewards, yes? Good, I’m going to need them to work in shifts tonight. Two on the port side of the boat at all times. If anybody tries to leave their cabin after dinner tonight, they are to be told to go back inside. If they refuse, send for me immediately. There’s only me and Patrick on the other side, as the Doyles’ cabin is empty. We’ll be fine. Miss Delilah will be told to room with Sr. Bernadine tonight. We’ll simply say that Hana is sick, and her cabin cannot be shared.”

“And Delilah?” Patrick asks. “What are we going to tell her?”

“The same thing,” Jonathan says with a sigh. “See if you can pack a bag for her, please, Vikram, and tell her that she must not come back to the staff quarters until tomorrow. Then you might go to the upper deck and tell the other guests they can return to their rooms now. Let Miss Belfort know that I will be calling to her soon. Thank you.”

Vikram nods and leaves.

“What’s this about dinner?” Jonathan asks.

Patrick shrugs. “Vikram was asking if dinner was going ahead as normal, and I said that I couldn’t see why not because people will still need to be fed. And then I suggested that we make it a six course meal which will distract everybody for at least three hours, and we’ll all be together, which might be a factor in staying alive right now. I mean, if you think it’s a bad idea…”

“I don’t,” Jonathan says, eyeing him curiously. “It’s a great idea, I’m just not sure that you don’t have another agenda altogether.”

Patrick grins at him. “Scurrilous accusations,” he says, shaking his head sadly. “Scurrilous.”

*

Julia Belfort invites Jonathan to sit on the wicker chair while she takes the corner of the bed. “Mr. Kane not with you? I’m beginning to think that you two are joined at the hip.”

“He’s helping out with what is promising to be an interesting dinner tonight. I’m just here to ask you a couple of questions.” Jonathan says. “It’s about the first time we spoke at the Old Town, and you said that there was a big scandal involving the death of Mrs. Doyle’s brother. What else do you know about that?”

Julia’s eyebrows rise with surprise. “It was rumors really,” she says after a minute. “I mean the official version is that Alfie was killed in a robbery. He was a diamond merchant, so that wasn’t too shocking. But the unofficial story… well. It’s rather delicate, but he was caught _in flagrante_ with another man, some American who was staying with him at the time.”

Jonathan makes himself take a long, calm breath. “And what, uh, what happened to the American?”

“I think he got away? I mean, as far as I know, the only person who was killed was Alfie.”

“And nobody knows anything else about him? His name or…?”

Julia’s head shakes. “No. Why do you ask? Do you think it has anything to do with Linnea’s death?”

“No,” Jonathan says. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with that at all.”

It’s about the only thing Jonathan is sure about.

*

He plans to go back to his room and maybe lie down, quieten his head, but he probably should know better than to make plans on this boat. Vikram is waiting outside Miss Belfort’s cabin to lead Jonathan away with some excited whispers about a big find. He’s told nothing more than it’s waiting in Mrs. Doyle’s cabin. “Because nobody wants to go in there, and it will be private for you, Superintendent.”

When he gets inside, there is something bloody on the stripped bed. On closer inspection, it’s a towel, an ashtray, and a gun -- the same gun that Jonathan last saw lying on the floor of the lounge area. He stares at it and then at a beaming Vikram. “Where did you find it?”

“We have a small row boat attached to the starboard. I was working in the dining room with Mr. Kane, and he said something about how you and he had looked everywhere on this boat, and then I remembered about the row boat. I did not think there would be anything there, but I thought it best to check, and…”

He points at the bloody towel that Jonathan is now holding up in the air. There are two bullet holes in it, and something hanging that for a godawful second Jonathan thinks might be brain matter or bloody flesh. But it turns out to be even more curious -- a tiny piece of red stretchy rubber.

“What do you think that is?” he asks, holding it out to Vikram. “A part of a balloon?”

Vikram looks more closely. “I think so, yes. It is like a balloon that has been blown up and then burst.”

“That is most strange. No sign of the necklace?”

“No, and I checked the whole boat, sir. It’s very small and there are no hiding places.”

Jonathan sighs heavily. “So what do you make of all of this then?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

Vikram considers for a minute. “Whoever came into the lounge to get the gun also took a towel -- we only use these particular towels in the bar, and then the person used it to muffle the noise when he shot Mrs. Doyle, which is why there is all the blood. Then he wrapped the gun in the towel and dropped it into the boat so it would not be found.” He looks up at Jonathan as if asking how he’s doing. 

“And the ashtray?”

Vikram makes a face at it. “It was used to weigh down the gun wrapped in the towel.”

“Like a weight,” Jonathan says, nodding. “I guess that could work. But why not just dump it all in the river?”

“Because he thinks he might need the gun again?”

“God,” Jonathan says with a shudder. He could go without seeing another dead body for a while. “Well, I suppose I should change for dinner. See what Patrick has in store.”

“Yes,” Vikram says, somewhat darkly.

“What?” Jonathan says, starting to smile. “What’s he done?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on, Vikram. Tell me!”

“Oh, far be it from me to criticize a guest, Superintendent…”

“But,” Jonathan prompts.

“He is insisting on setting the table, and it is all wrong,” Vikram blurts. “He is putting the fish knife where the salad knife goes, and the dinner fork where the entrée fork goes, and what is worse, nothing is consistent. Every setting is different.” He stops and takes a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing his forehead. “It is best that I do not even look at what he has done to the glasses.”

“Probably,” Jonathan agrees. “Just let him go with it tonight. I think he has a plan.”

“To send me to the grave,” Vikram mutters, and then looks appalled with himself when Jonathan starts to laugh. 

“Rich people, Vikram,” he says, laying a comforting hand on Vikram’s shoulder.

“Indeed, sir, indeed.”

*

There are eight people for dinner, even though it looks like there should be more with all the cutlery and glasses on the table. It does get pretty confusing, and Jonathan doesn’t just mix up his own setting, he also thinks he might have used Dr. Saeur’s soup spoon. Patrick, however, seems to know what he’s doing, or at least he’s not too bothered about getting it wrong. He pays more attention to the guests than anything else, his eyes bright and watchful.

As promised, there are six courses that Jonathan battles his way through while making small talk with Saeur and Sr. Bernadine. After tea and coffee, they move to the couches to listen to a short set by Delilah, and Jonathan can't help but think that this was a perfect play by Patrick, keeping everyone busy and together, and filling their bellies so full that sleep is more necessary than optional. He even takes Julia and Sr. Bernadine for spins around the floor.

“I’m beat,” he tells Jonathan when they get back to their cabin after midnight. “Can you imagine eating that much regularly? I think I’d die.”

“For sure,” Jonathan says, kicking his shoes off. “But did you find out whatever it was you wanted to know?”

“I did,” Patrick says, looking pleased with himself.

“Care to share?”

“It can wait until tomorrow. But I learned two things tonight, and one of them is who the murderer isn’t.” 

That could be a strategy, pick off who didn’t do it until one is standing. 

“I forgot to ask, what was it you went to see Julia about earlier?” Patrick asks, and Jonathan hesitates. He should echo Patrick’s words back to him -- _It can wait until tomorrow_.

But maybe it can’t. “She mentioned something, before, about Linnea’s brother dying out in South Africa. I wanted to know more.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, as if the merriment has been punched out of him. He goes into the bathroom, but leaves the door open. “What did she say?” he calls out.

“I think you know,” Jonathan says, crossing the room. “Can I come in?”

There’s no answer, so Jonathan edges his way carefully through the door. Patrick is standing at the sink, gripping the rim of it like that’s what’s holding him up.

“I found a photograph of you today,” Jonathan says, reaching into his pocket for it, and placing it in the sink when Patrick doesn’t look up. “It was under Linnea Doyle’s jewelry box.”

It’s utterly silent for a long time until Patrick rasps, “That’s not me.”

Jonathan waits for him to look up and then holds his gaze. It’s a good thirty seconds before Patrick breaks. “That’s Alfie Ridgeway, Linnea’s brother.”

“Yes,” Jonathan says, moving closer until he can point to the man in the picture. “That’s Alfie Ridgeway. But you’re there, too. Most of you has been cut out, but that’s your hand I can see on his shoulder. That’s the exact same scar that’s on your wrist. Only darker, as if the injury is more recent.”

Patrick exhales in a rush, and leans his forehead against the mirror. “Are you going to tell people?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Because I could be executed, and my family, my sisters…”

“No,” Jonathan shouts. He puts his hands on Patrick’s shoulders to spin him around. “God, Patrick… how could you… how could you even think that? I wasn’t… I wasn't _threatening_ you.” He slides his hands upwards, cupping Patrick’s face, threading fingers into his hair, holding his head, making him look at Jonathan so that he’ll see. “I would never do anything to hurt you,” he says, not knowing where the words are coming from, but immediately recognizing their truth. “I didn’t mention you at all to Julia. It’s just that I found the photograph, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to make of it. That’s all. Patrick?”

Patrick stares back at him, eyes wide. “And what am I supposed to make of this?” he asks, putting a shaking hand onto Jonathan’s chest.

Jonathan lets his hands drop. “Sorry,” he says, but he’s moving closer, not further away. “Sorry.” He tries to say it a third time, but Patrick steps up and swallows it with his own mouth.

*


	6. Bridge Over Troubled Water

*

It’s not a great word to start a kiss on -- _sorry_. But Patrick swipes it clean off Jonathan’s lips with his tongue, and then they’re kissing. It’s not Jonathan’s first kiss, it’s not his first kiss with a man, but it the first time he’s felt like he’s been sent into a tailspin, Patrick working his mouth open, his hand moving to the back of Jonathan’s neck. 

“Wait.”

It’s like a splash of cold water and Patrick splutters, moving back, his expression sick.

“No,” Jonathan says, a hand fisting in Patrick’s shirt. “Just. I wasn’t threatening you. I need you to know that. You don’t have to --”

“What if I want to?” Patrick says, licking his lower lip.

And well. Jonathan pulls him back in, and moans his response into Patrick’s mouth, tilting his head to get a better angle, to kiss him deeper. They kiss all the way across the room, not moving apart even when Jonathan’s knees hit the base of the bed and he thumps down on the mattress. Patrick climbs on top of him, and Jonathan arches up into the weight pinning him down, holding him where he wants to be. They’re still kissing when they start grinding together, breaths hitching in each other’s mouths when Jonathan pushes up as Patrick presses down. 

“Clothes,” Patrick mumbles, his mouth finding its way to Jonathan’s neck, his earlobes, and every other place that lights him up. They’re both hard, and it hurts to pull apart, even for the few seconds it takes to get out of a shirt or a pair of pants. In between ridding themselves of clothing, they surge back together again, new skin exposed for kisses and touches. Jonathan can’t get enough of the feel of Patrick over him, the curve of his muscles, the taste of salt on his skin, the sound he makes when Jonathan does something he really likes. In the end, they rock together to climax, underwear shoved out of the way, cocks pressing and sliding together, Jonathan reaching a hand down to close over them and wring out the last aftershocks.

Patrick stays splayed on top of him, both of them boneless and sweaty.

“Okay?” Jonathan asks, fingertips dancing on Patrick’s biceps. 

“Dead,” Patrick snorts. “You’ve killed me.”

Worth it, Jonathan thinks. They lie as they are for a while, until things start to get sticky and unpleasant. It’s Patrick who gets up for a wet towel from the bathroom and uses it to wash them down. It’s Jonathan who rolls them onto the clean mattress, pulling the one pillow under their heads.

“I suppose you want to know,” Patrick mumbles mid-yawn. “About Alfie and Linnea.”

Jonathan does, just not right now. He’s feeling strangely territorial, about the man in his arms and the moment they’re having. It would be almost intrusive to bring anybody else into it. “Tomorrow,” he says, smiling when Patrick leans over to kiss him.

“Okay,” Patrick says. They’re facing each other, legs tangled, sharing breath. “We have a long list of things to do tomorrow before we get to Luxor.”

“Hm,” Jonathan agrees. He’s not thinking about them. “Can we put doing this again on the list?” he says, and ducks in for another kiss.

“We certainly can,” Patrick answers, lips swollen and quirked. “What’s going to happen when we dock?”

Jonathan sighs. “I’ll have to wait until the police arrive, and the passengers will all have to remain in the city until the investigation is over. I’ll have to stay, too, and try not to get into jurisdiction wars with other magistrates. There’ll be a lot of paperwork and repeating myself. If I think about it too much, I might cry.”

“Well,” Patrick says, curling a palm around Jonathan’s ribs. “Maybe we’ll solve the mystery before then, and you’ll be spared that nightmare.”

“That would be nice. And if that did happen, then I could leave after a day, maybe get the express train back, and get home to my house. My nice, private house, that is so peaceful that anybody could, say, stay there and write a book. That’s, of course, if anybody wanted to and didn’t have other places to be.” It’s easy to ask, even if it’ll be hard to be refused.

“Anybody would love that,” Patrick says, grinning, and they’re kissing again, just soft, almost noisy pecks that make Jonathan’s heart thud hard in his chest. They slow when their lips are numb and their eyes are more reluctant to open, and Jonathan thinks he might even kiss Patrick a time or two in his sleep.

He doesn’t dream, and he wouldn’t even say that this is his most restful night -- it’s been a while since he’s had a body next to him, even if that’s something he’s hoping to get used to again. He’s aware of Patrick's closeness, but it’s comfortable, and comforting, soothing his addled head, his muddled mind, and by the time he wakes in the morning, pieces are starting to fall into place.

It’s Vikram who wakes him, knocking at the door and calling his name. Jonathan disentangles himself from a stirring Patrick, and rises, reaching for his pyjamas. For all that they may be scandalous, Jonathan is sure they’d be preferred to what he’s currently wearing -- which is nothing but a few bite marks from Patrick.

“Just a minute,” he calls, dressing quickly. He opens the door and steps outside.

“Good morning, sir,” Vikram says, bowing. “There is no news to report from last night. The stewards did as you requested, and nobody left their cabins once they settled after dinner. The guests are beginning to rise now, and we will be serving breakfast within the next half an hour. Perhaps that would be a good time to inform them of the unfortunate news.”

Jonathan nods. “I’ll wait until everybody has eaten, and do it then. We - Patrick and I - will have breakfast here in our cabin. Could you send a tray?”

Vikram promises to do so in the next fifteen minutes, and Jonathan goes back inside just as Patrick walks out of the bathroom, naked.

“Dear god,” he says, and Patrick smiles at him, shameless. 

“You want me to cover up?” he says.

That’s the last thing Jonathan wants. “I like you perfectly fine like this,” he says, pulling Patrick back to the bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress, standing Patrick in the cradle of his thighs. “I’d like you to stay like this.” The words are pressed into the soft plane of Patrick’s stomach with wet, sucky kisses that make him squirm and press between Jonathan’s mouth and hands. 

“Jon,” he whines, twisting his fingers into the short strands of Jonathan’s hair, but Jonathan is not to be rushed, taking his time, taking his fill, counting Patrick’s ribs with his tongue, sealing his lips around Patrick’s nipples, tugging at them when Patrick gives him a stunned grunt.

“Perfect,” Jonathan says, kissing his way back down, down until he’s at eye-level with Patrick’s hard, flushed cock. He leans in further, looking up at Patrick, who is staring back at him with half-lidded eyes and a slack, open mouth. He lets out a barely restrained sob when Jonathan tongues at the tip, and then a loud moan when Jonathan takes him in deep, and then deeper. 

Ordering breakfast to the room was a mistake, because they’re going to have to hurry this part up, when Jonathan doesn’t really want to. He wants to lose himself in the smell, taste and feel of Patrick in his mouth for a long as he can. But then, the last thing he wants is Vikram knocking on the door while they’re like this, so he brings up a hand to help, working it with his mouth until Patrick catches a rhythm and is babbling nonsense at the ceiling. Jonathan can feel it when his thighs tense and tremble, and then his whole body shudders as he empties into Jonathan’s mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick says, collapsing over Jonathan’s shoulder. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, sorry.”

Jonathan laughs, not knowing what exactly Patrick is apologizing for -- the coarse swearing, the climax that’s still bitter on Jonathan’s tongue, or the weird way he’s kind of hurting Jonathan’s neck. The last is the only one he might complain about.

“Shh,” he says, rubbing the tremors from Patrick’s thighs, kissing the skin of his belly. “Come on, lie --” 

The knock on the door feels wrong, and it irritates Jonathan, even though he knows it’s only Vikram doing what Jonathan asked of him.

“Leave it there, please,” Jonathan shouts while Patrick slides off him and onto the bed. “I’ll get it in a minute.”

There’s a pause and then the sound of crockery rocking when the tray is lowered to the ground. “Very good, Superintendent,” Vikram calls back, voice muffled.

It might be a bit abrupt, but it’s not like either of them can open the door right now. Besides, Jonathan wants to lean over and kiss Patrick a little, relishing how his mouth is soft and slow in its post-coital laziness.

“Food,” he decides, giving Patrick one last peck, and adjusting himself when he climbs off the bed.

“I owe you,” Patrick calls after him, and yes he does. But it can wait until after breakfast.

Thankfully, there deck is empty when Jonathan collects the tray. He brings it back to the bed, where Patrick has gathered a sheet to cover himself, and sets it down on the mattress. They eat, just using words to offer more coffee or to pass the jam, and Jonathan loves the ease of it, how natural it is.

“So,” Patrick says, reaching for the last slice of toast. “The photograph. We should talk about that, huh?”

Jonathan supposes they should. 

“I met Alfie in Kimberley while I was researching a book. He was…” Patrick pauses. “I was going to say nice, but he wasn’t. Not really. He was shady, and a terrible boaster, but that was good for me -- he didn’t hold back when telling me about mining life. And he was charismatic, handsome, too. Tall, same eyes as his sister --”

Jonathan clears his throat. “Thank you, yes. I’ve seen his photo. I don’t need a description.”

“Idiot,” Patrick says, kicking him playfully. “I’m just trying to say that it was… a physical thing. I never wanted to stay in _his_ private, quiet house while I wrote my book. Anyhow, we were seen, I guess… at the mine, by one of the workers. We were careless, worse even -- we were reckless, and the worker was one of these people that has a huge problem with people like us. So the next day he brought a gun to the mine. I wasn’t there, but Alfie was.”

That’s Jonathan’s favorite part of the story so far, that Patrick wasn’t at the mine.

Patrick finishes the last bite of his toast and grabs a napkin to brush the crumbs from his fingers. He balls it up and throws it towards the trashcan. "Missed," he says, rolling his eyes at himself. “Where was I... oh, yes. The police covered it up as best they could, of course, because Alfie was from money, but I knew there would be rumors and whispers, so I made a very quick exit. The only things I took with me were my notebook, my passport and my wallet. I wasn’t too worried about any scandal following me, all anyone really knew was my first name and my nationality.”

“Research is easier when you’re anonymous?” Jonathan says, quoting Patrick from the first day they met.

“Exactly,” Patrick says, smiling as if pleased that Jonathan remembered. “I got back home to the US safely, and that’s when I found the photograph in my notebook. It was the last picture ever taken of Alfie, and I figured it would mean more to Linnea to have it. I cut myself out and sent it to her. And then I never thought of it again until you dropped it into the sink last night.”

Jonathan takes a sip of his coffee. “That’s a hell of a coincidence,” he says. “For someone who’s been highly sceptical of other people’s coincidences.”

Patrick pulls a face at him. “I know. But mine is just that -- a coincidence, and I fully expect you to believe me because you like me better than everyone else.”

Jonathan does, on both counts.

“I didn’t even know who Linnea was for the first few days of our tour, and I probably might not ever have known if it wasn’t for Sir Easton mistakenly referring to her as Miss Ridgeway at dinner one night.” Patrick shrugs. “That’s why I was so interested in her. Not that Alfie talked about her a lot. There was a bit of an age gap between them. But he mentioned her, and then there she was -- beautiful, wealthy, fragile, and surrounded by people who were also watching her. And well, dead now, too.”

Dead and sharing a fridge with poor Hana. “I’ll have to get dressed soon,” Jonathan says regretfully. “Go out there and tell everyone what happened yesterday.”

“You do,” Patrick agrees, setting his cup and plate on the locker. He grins, impish. “But first, I’ve been meaning to get more acquainted with these pyjamas of yours.” He ducks under the blankets, making Jonathan snort. “Oh, yes, these are very interesting. Are they one hundred percent nylon? I think my nephew has a pair like this, only his have King Kong on them. Maybe you could get a pair of those. You would look very fetching with monsters on your pajamas ...”

Jonathan throws his head back, laughing loudly at Patrick’s charming ridiculousness. He stops though, when Patrick claims to need an even closer look, and pulls the shorts down.

“Oh, look at that,” Patrick leers. “You have a monster _in_ your pajamas.”

*

Delilah says nothing for about thirty seconds, and then shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know why I am not shocked. Murder is a terrible, shocking thing. But, I am not shocked.”

Neither is she upset. “When was the last time you saw Miss Hana?” Jonathan asks.

“Yesterday morning. I was going back to the room to get my clean apron, although just as I got to the door, I remembered that I had one in the kitchen.”

“So you didn’t go inside, you didn't actually see her?”

Delilah’s head shakes. “She was there though, spraying that perfume. I could smell it through the door.”

The guests are much more astounded by the news. There’s a horrible, hushed silence in the dining room when Jonathan makes the announcement. Pennington covers his eyes with his palms, Sir Easton moves to catch a sagging Sr. Bernadine, and Julia reaches for Delilah’s hand.

“But what… what happened?” John Smith stammers. 

“She was stabbed in the neck, and her carotid artery was severed. She bled to death,” Jonathan answers, and it draws some gasps, and a sharp cry from Bernadine. Vikram makes yet another timely appearance with a tray of coffee, and he sets about placing a cup in front of every passenger. He snaps his fingers and one of the stewards comes forward with a bottle of Cognac.

“Not for me,” Sr. Bernadine says, pushing her cup away. “I’m tired of coffee. Could I have tea?” She barely makes it to the end of the sentence before bursting into tears, her whole body wracked with sobs. It adds an almost bizarre awkwardness to the already tense room, with most people looking at the ceiling or the floor. Except for Delilah, whose face is puzzled and confused.

“Now, now, Sister Bernadine,” Sir Easton says, taking the chair beside her and patting one of her shaking shoulders. “Chin up, eh?”

“If anybody has seen or heard anything, then please speak to me,” Jonathan says. “Otherwise everybody will be interviewed once we dock in Luxor. We will not be disembarking until the police have arrived. My advice would be that after coffee, you go back to your cabins and keep your doors open while you pack your belongings. And once you are done, you should return to the dining area where…” _There’s safety in numbers._

“There will be more refreshments and some games,” Vikram finishes, handing over the cup of tea that’s come from the kitchen for Sr. Bernadine. Sir Easton helps prepare it, coaxing her to sip at the hot drink. 

Jonathan leaves, Patrick following him, all but vibrating with excitement.

“What?” Jonathan says suspiciously.

“Sr. Bernadine's tea,” Patrick says. “She has a very unusual way of taking her tea. Instead of milk and sugar, she prefers lemon and water.”

“So?” 

“So, we'll see. Where are we going now?”

“To see Linnea’s body.”

Patrick’s face screws up like he doesn’t want to do that, but he stays by Jonathan’s side, something Jonathan is grateful for. He does however, turn his back on the bodies in the big fridge.

“What are you looking for?” he asks.

“Something that’s been bugging me,” Jonathan answers, looking critically and dispassionately at Linnea’s remains. 

“And is it still bugging you?”

Jonathan shakes his head. It’s close he feels, it’s really, really close.

On their way out, Patrick asks if they can go see Simon Doyle.

“Whatever for?”

“Something that’s been bugging me,” Patrick parrots with a grin

*

Simon is awake and lucid when they call on him. 

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” Jonathan says. “There’s just something we need to clear up, something quick.”

“It’s about Mrs. Doyle’s estate,” Patrick says. “Was she planning to retain Mr. Pennington as her lawyer, do you know?”

“Yes,” Simon answers. “Her father was American, and Pennington was his lawyer. I didn’t see the sense of it, with her living in England. I thought it would have been better for her to have everything transferred to an English solicitor. But she was quite attached to Pennington. Family loyalty, perhaps.” 

“Thank you,” Patrick says. “And was Mr. Pennington aware of your preference for a transfer?”

Simon nods. “I mentioned it once. He became quite cross --” He’s cut off by the sudden appearance of Delilah Masud at the door.

“Superintendent Toews,” she says, panting breathlessly. “Oh thank goodness you are here. I have been up and down the boat looking for you.”

Jonathan stands up. “What is it?”

“I know who did it,” Delilah gasps. “I know who killed Mrs. Doyle. Well, I know who killed Hana, and we can agree that the same person killed both of them?”

“You know who killed my wife?” Simon shouts. 

Delilah coughs out a yes, and bends over to cough some more. 

“Get her some water,” Simon demands. “She knows who killed Linnea. My god, man, _move_.”

Patrick reaches for a glass, while Delilah tries to collect herself. “Thank you,” she says, taking the water and drinking deep. “It was what I said to you, Superintendent, about going back to my room.” She takes another drink, the performer in her possibly enjoying her utterly captivated audience. “The perfume, you see. That’s how I thought Hana was in the cabin. But then…”

It happens so quickly, Delilah and the glass crashing to the ground, the water mixing with the blood gushing from her neck. Jonathan moves to the door, but he has to step over a struggling Delilah and get past a swaying Patrick, and by the time he gets to the deck, it’s empty. He goes back inside to where Delilah lies dead, a knife lodged in her throat.

Patrick is crouched over her, not much caring about the blood he’s kneeling in, whispering words of comfort into her unhearing ears.

“What…” Simon says, staring wildly at Jonathan. “What the hell just happened?”

“Someone just threw a knife in through the open door to stop Delilah telling us who killed your wife.”

“My god,” Simon splutters. “Who would… what kind of person…”

A desperate one, Jonathan thinks.

*

Jonathan knows the importance of not reacting, no matter how stressful the situation or its effect on the surrounding people. It’s up to him to assume charge, to curb panic and restore calm. With that in mind, he spends the next hour overseeing his own demands before joining Patrick in their cabin.

“What’s happening?” Patrick asks, bathed and dressed in fresh clothes.

Jonathan tugs off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and flops down on the bed, gesturing for Patrick to come to him. Patrick goes immediately, fussing and twisting until their legs are tangled and Jonathan’s head is resting on Patrick’s chest. The _thud-thud_ of Patrick’s heart is a balm to his frayed nerves.

“Delilah’s body is still on the floor of Dr. Sauer’s room. We decided not to move her to the fridge, because then we’d have to start calling it the mortuary. And there’s no more space. We did move Simon Doyle to the dining room, and the rest of the guests are assembled there, with the exception of Miss Belfort, who is in her cabin with two stewards posted outside her door. Nobody is to leave their assigned areas. And before I came back here, I went to see the sofa that was removed from the dining room after Simon Doyle was shot, and I also found out where exactly the row boat is kept. Also, I got the gun. It’s in my jacket pocket. Thought it might be prudent to be armed. Although that may be a little belated.”

Patrick presses a kiss into his hair. “Where to start,” he muses. “Why is Julia under guard?”

Jonathan sighs. “I think she might be the last victim.”

“Intriguing. And the sofa?”

“Looking for holes.”

“Interesting. And the row boat?”

“Because you missed the trashcan.”

“Fascinating. So what now?”

Jonathan says nothing for a minute. “I think I know who did it, Patrick, and I think I know why. But I’m going to need you to help me with the how.”

Patrick catches his hand, twines their fingers loosely together. “Oh that’s easy,” he says. “I told you before, it’s the ‘who’ and the ‘why’ that are important. The rest is just logistics. Come on, get up, we’ll make a story map. I might even have a thing or two to contribute.”

Jonathan doesn’t doubt it. “In a minute,” he says, tuning everything out but Patrick’s heartbeat.

*


	7. Love is the Sweetest Thing

*

There’s a bit of grumbling when Jonathan asks the passengers to gather together in the lounge area.

“Good evening,” he says, and addresses them all by name. “Mr. Pennington, Dr. Sauer, Sr. Bernadine, Sir Easton, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Doyle. Thank you all for your patience. Miss Belfort will not be joining us. Mr. Doyle, I hope that you're not too uncomfortable.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Pennington demands before Simon can answer. “We are not pawns to be moved about for your entertainment, Toews. Do you even have any news for us?”

“Three people have been murdered, Mr. Pennington,” Jonathan replies mildly. “You have been ‘moved about’ for your own safety. And yes, I have news. I know who killed Mrs. Doyle.” There is an immediate snap of attention from his audience. “And that person is sitting here with us right now.”

There’s no gasping or crying out, instead the room grows deathly quiet. The tension is further stretched by the appearance of Vikram, who comes in and lays a basin and a towel on the table, and then hands Patrick a sheet of paper. Everyone watches in silence as Patrick reads the page and then folds it into his pocket without saying a word.

“Damn it to hell,” Pennington shouts. “If you know who the killer is, tell us now!”

“You,” Jonathan says, and this time there are gasps.

Pennington’s eyes bulge, almost right out of their sockets. “How dare you --”

“You had motive,” Jonathan says, loud enough to cut through Pennington’s bluster. “You’ve been stealing from Mrs. Doyle's estate for years, the estate she very suddenly got control of a month ago, a year sooner than you were expecting. You had to move fast, perhaps even run into Linnea on her honeymoon, and take advantage of her inexperience and trust in you. Get her to sign off on your bad investments or on new ones you wanted to get involved in. Do what you had to do to buy yourself some time to fix the mess you had made of her inheritance.”

Pennington shakes his head, and points a finger at Jonathan. “I already told you. I left America before Linnea’s marriage. I can prove that I was on the Normandie before the wedding.”

“Yes, you can,” Jonathan says. “But that’s because Mrs. Doyle wrote to you before her wedding, not after.”

“You can’t prove that!”

Jonathan nods. “True. But I can prove what you did after you arrived in Europe. You began following Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, trying to catch up with them for this chance encounter. But Miss Belfort kept driving the Doyles away from every place they went, and you were never able to reach them in time. Until you arrived in Egypt, and they stayed in one place long enough for you to casually ‘run into’ them. And this can be easily verified, Mr. Pennington. I bet that I can find your name on recent passages to Italy, and Greece, and Turkey, and Cyprus, and all within a day or two of the Doyles.” He holds a hand up when Pennington tries to interrupt again. “Not that it matters. We will know everything we need to know when Mrs. Doyle’s estate is thoroughly examined by the authorities once we leave the boat.”

“All right,” Pennington roars, standing up and flailing his arms around. “It’s because of this goddamn slump. I was hoping that with a bit of luck, I could get everything straightened out by the time she took control. But I didn’t kill her.” He points a finger at Jonathan. “I didn’t kill her, you hear me? I did not kill her!”

“No, you didn’t,” Patrick says, and it makes Jonathan smile a little to see how easily he steps from the shadows into the spotlight. “Her death was was actually the worst thing that could have happened to you, because now Simon Doyle has inherited everything, and he’s made it known that he would prefer to have the estate moved from your hands, and brought to English solicitors, who would have been immediately alarmed by the condition of it. No, Mr. Pennington, when Linnea was killed, the time you needed to fix things died with her.”

Pennington looks around warily, avoiding Simon Doyle’s eyes. He sits down, embarrassed, dabbing his sweaty head with a dirty handkerchief.

“So…” John Smith says. “If it wasn’t Pennington, then…?”

“How about you, Mr. Smith?” Patrick suggests. 

Smith blinks at him. “Why would I?”

“Don’t you have a bit of a mission to rid the world of _vapid millionairesses_? Or could it be that you are just all talk?”

Smith squirms in his chair, like he’s trying to sink into it. “My principles may be different from your own, Mr. Kane, but that does not make me a murderer.”

“It might make you a hypocrite, though,” Patrick says. “Especially when you have a closet full of expensive jewelry.”

Smith doesn’t look much surprised, but then he had to have known that Jonathan and Patrick might unearth the jewelry during the cabin searches. “I’m not answering any more questions,” he says, crossing his arms. 

“That’s perfectly fine,” Patrick says, soothingly. “I already know everything I need to know about you. _John. Smith_.” 

Smith’s only reaction is to go perfectly still, as if frozen. The rest of the room is staring between him and Patrick in confusion. 

“What is going on?” Dr. Sauer demands. “Has this man been stealing?”

Patrick shakes his head. “You can’t steal what you already own. Isn’t that right… Lord Dahlish?”

It’s almost comical, how everyone immediately recognizes the name, if not the person. They all turn to stare at Smith, and he scowls back at them. 

Patrick is pacing the floor now, hands in the pockets of his linen pants. That he’s loving the limelight is no surprise to Jonathan, given that the last thing he said before they left their cabin was _showtime_. This is him, on stage, having the time of his life.

“You wanted to hide your wealth,” Patrick says. “Because as you told us yourself, imagine if money and genes were _the sum of what makes you interesting_. You rejected your birthright, became John Smith, the most common name in England, because that was you, the common man who has shaken off the social constraints of aristocracy, who is free to think progressively and speak freely. Who is _interesting_. The problem is, Mr. Smith, that while you reject your status, you can’t cast off your inherent sense of entitlement so easily. You speak to people as if they are the servants in your house, telling them how they must behave, what they must think, how bad they must feel, how you are better than them. From the moment I met you, I doubted your sincerity, because the bored demeanor you give off is one that only the obscenely rich can afford.”

Smith gives Patrick a slow, sarcastic clap, which Patrick accepts with an equally sarcastic bow. “Aren’t you clever.”

“Yes,” Patrick says, matter of fact. “Once we found the jewelry, it took me just a few minutes to realize that it was way more likely that you were Lord Dahlish than someone who stole from him. So I set up a little test to see for sure. I organized dinner last night to be a six course meal, and I helped to lay a formal table, something I learned to do while writing a travel piece --”

Horseshit, Jonathan thinks with way too much affection. Patrick learned to do this because Dulcie Cotterage once solved a murder where the victim was killed at a dinner, and the murderer gave himself away by saying how terrible it was that somebody would be stabbed in the temple with a _salad_ knife. But nobody had mentioned which exact knife had been used in the killing. On the table, there were fish knives, dinner knives, and ...

“ -- but I intentionally mixed up all of the settings. Most of you didn’t really notice, and just used what was nearest. But Mr. Smith, you rearranged your own setting, and you used the right knife and the right fork for every course. You might be able to hide your name, but you couldn’t hide your breeding.”

Smith says nothing for a few seconds and then, “So what? Even if all of that is true, I haven’t broken any laws. I haven’t killed anybody.”

Patrick nods. “That’s true. You had no reason to. And motive is important. But you, Sir Easton, you did have a motive for killing Mrs. Doyle.”

“Oh, I see,” Sir Easton says cheerfully. “It’s my turn now? What fun! Yes, I killed dear Linnea, because… let me see… I was still in love with her.”

“No,” Patrick says, smiling. “You killed Linnea because you stole her necklace.”

It’s extraordinary, the way the glee is slapped from Sir Easton’s face, leaving behind a blotchy flush.

“Necklace,” Simon Doyle says. “What necklace?”

“This one.” Patrick takes the fake choker from his pocket and holds it up for viewing.

“That’s the one that Linnea was wearing the other night,” Pennington says.

“It certainly looks like it,” Patrick agrees. “But no. This is a replica. The real one has been stolen by Sir Easton Carlisle.”

“That’s enough,” Sir Easton snaps. “I was playing along with this… charade. But now it’s just… slander. I should have my solicitor warn you, Mr. Kane.”

“Your solicitor may have more serious work to do on your behalf, Sir Easton,” Patrick says dismissively. “And I believe it’s only slander if it isn’t true.”

“Fine,” Sir Easton says, crossing his legs and tapping his fingers frantically on his thigh. “Do tell.”

“Thank you,” Patrick says. “The first part isn’t all that interesting. You and Linnea have a platonic history, which makes what you said the other night a little strange. While the Doyles were dancing after dinner, you were looking at Linnea, and you said, ‘I’ve never seen anything more beautiful’. But of course you weren’t talking about the lady, you were talking about the Athena Choker. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen it -- we know from Mr. Doyle that Linnea had the piece for a while and that she often wore it -- but you were staring at it this time because you were planning to steal it.”

Sir Easton shrugs his shoulders somewhat violently. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Oh, that’s easy. You need it to fund your new hotel.”

“Nonsense,” Sir Easton declares, but his eyes are shifty as they glance around the room. 

“Then how are you paying for such an ambitious project? You have no job, and you said yourself that your father lost his money. Although, maybe your wife is wealthy.” Patrick pauses. “Would it be rude of me to ask her myself?”

There are frowns from the other guests, but Sir Easton truly has the worst game face. He’s petrified, his skin paled to an awful shade of grey. 

Patrick walks to a side table where he wets his hands with the water in the basin that Vikram left. He then moves to crouch before Sr. Bernadine, taking her hands in his. She looks at him, her eyes wide and uncertain.

“Well, Sr. Bernadine, or should I say… Lady Vivienne, are you wealthy?”

It’s as if the air has been sucked from the room. 

Sr. Bernadine -- _Lady Vivienne_ \-- begins to struggle, trying to get out of Patrick’s grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about… your hands are wet… Let go of me.”

Patrick stands up, holding his palms up in what at first appears to be an apology, but is really to show the brown streaks on his fingers. “Tanning lotion,” he says. “The kind that a fair skinned lady might need if she is to pass herself off as a nun who spends a lot of time outside in the sun.”

Lady Vivienne starts to cry, and that’s what it takes for Sir Easton to give up the pretence and join her on the sofa. “Damn you,” he growls, glaring at Patrick. “We didn’t kill anybody.”

“I know,” Patrick says. “Mrs. Doyle was already dead when your wife stole the necklace.”

Lady Vivienne sobs a little louder, her husband trying to comfort her with an arm around her shoulders.

“I do not understand this at all,” Dr. Sauer declares.

Jonathan smiles to himself, knowing that Patrick will be only too happy to explain.

“It’s quite good,” Patrick says, wiping the lotion from his hands with the towel. “Sir Easton and his wife are in Egypt when they hear that Linnea Doyle has arrived on her honeymoon. It seems like a great stroke of fortune, because they need money for their hotel plans, and Linnea has plenty of it. So they hatch a plan to relieve her of the Athena Choker. They have to move quickly, get a replica made locally in a few days, and figure out how exactly they were going to steal the original.”

Patrick takes the page Vikram gave him from his pocket. “This is the passenger booking log for this tour. You were the last person to book, Sir Easton, and there was only one room left. You are going to reserve it for you and your wife, but then you spot Sr. Bernadine’s name on the list, and you begin to get clever. Now you’re thinking what if you had a co-conspirator instead of a wife, someone who would not be associated with you, and what if that someone was a nun who is trusted and who everyone believes would never steal. All you have to do is get the real Sr. Bernadine out of the picture.”

“Oh god,” Simon cries. “You mean, they killed her?”

Patrick laughs. “No. They sent her to Rome. That’s why there was a receipt for a passage to Italy in your room, Sir Easton. I wondered why you didn’t go. You had booked it, and you had paid for it. But it was never _for_ you. It was for the real Sr. Bernadine, who must have been delighted to have her prize upgraded to a vacation in the pope’s country.”

Jonathan can’t help but marvel at how gifted a storyteller Patrick is, how he comes alive, eyes bright, face flushed as he weaves tales around facts. He -- Jonathan -- is as captivated as the rest of the room, even though he heard all of this already when they were putting the pieces together in their cabin.

“Now all that remains is to create stories about themselves. Sir Easton is on a scouting trip, which is essentially true. Lady Vivienne changes parts of her own life story to become Bernadine, but she holds onto much of her own history. That way she’s less likely to fall into a lie. And all that has to be done now is to get some nun’s clothing, and darken the skin. How am I doing here, Sir Easton?”

“Go to hell,” Sir Easton spits. 

“Okay, but I’ll finish this first. You join the tour and board the cruise, and all you have to do is wait for an opportunity to arise for you, Lady Vivienne, to switch the necklaces. Probably on the last day, because that makes the most sense. But then, Miss Belfort changes everything by shooting Simon Doyle, and things have to move more quickly because the Doyles will probably leave the cruise. And it’s not a complete disaster, this shake-up. You are spending the night with Miss Belfort to watch over her, and she’s been given a strong sedative. All you have to do is wait for her to fall asleep, and for the boat to quieten down. Then you leave the room and run around to Mrs. Doyle’s cabin -- you know exactly where everything is because you have been doing laps of the boat, not to tire yourself out, but to get to know the layout -- and you quickly switch the necklaces. It doesn’t take you long, because as your husband has told us, you’re the sporty type, and you’re back in minutes, without even knowing that Mrs Doyle was already dead in her bed. Then all you have to do is break off the diamonds and…”

Patrick pauses for a little added drama. “Glue them into the hollow beads of your rosary.”

Lady Vivienne shrugs off her husband’s hand and stands, twisting and tugging until the rosary beads are freed from her waist. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on them,” she says, holding them out for Jonathan to take. “I should have known this was a terrible idea.”

“It wasn’t really,” Patrick says, almost comfortingly. “It was just that you made a few mistakes. The first was, you were a bit of a terrible nun. I didn’t even know what it was specifically, but I knew from the beginning that you weren’t what you said you were. Probably because punishment for rebellious behaviour in my house was a trip to the Legion of Mary, and well, there were a lot of nuns there. But I knew for sure when you messed up the rosary while we were praying with Julia Belfort. You knew the prayers, but you mixed up the order of them, something a former altar boy like me would notice. 

“But the worst was the bottle of tanning lotion. I’m guessing that you keep the bottles in the deep pockets of your habit because you can’t risk them being seen in your room. Which is why we didn’t find any on our search of the boat. But unfortunately for you, one fell out while you were in Mrs. Doyle’s cabin. 

“And finally, the tube of glue. I didn’t know what it was for but I could see no use for it in your cabin, and it wasn’t the same glue that’s stored on the boat, which means that you brought it onboard yourself. That had to be relevant.”

Patrick stops, and pours himself a glass of water. “But it was you, Sir Easton who gave the game away this morning after breakfast. Will I tell you how?”

“No,” Sir Easton snaps.

“It was the tea,” Patrick says, grinning from ear to ear. “‘Sr. Bernadine’ said that she wanted tea because she had been drinking coffee all week. It would be fair to conclude then that this was her first cup of tea since boarding, but you, Sir Easton, knew how to dress it. Despite _never_ having seen ‘Sr. Bernadine’ drink a cup of tea, you knew how exactly how she took it, with lemon and water, and not the much more regular milk and sugar. And that’s when I knew that you were far more to each other than acquaintances on a boat.”

Nobody says anything for the longest minute, and then Dr. Sauer blurts, “But you said the murderer is in this room, and if it is not Easton or the fake sister or Pennington or the stupid boy, then…”

“That leaves two,” Patrick finishes for him. “You and Simon Doyle.”

“I did not --”

Patrick holds a hand up to silence him. “Don’t worry, Doctor, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“What does that mean?” Sauer snaps.

“It means that you are what you say you are. A somewhat grumpy, middle-aged doctor, vacationing alone. You didn’t kill anybody.”

Every pair of eyes in the room turn to Simon. “What?” he scoffs. “You cannot be serious. It’s not even possible. You were there when Julia shot me, remember?”

“We were,” Jonathan says, stepping away from the wall he’s been leaning on. It’s his turn to take to the stage now. “But we’ll get to that. I want to start with a couple of things that bugged me, and kept bugging me, even though I couldn’t make sense of them. I’m sure you’ll forgive me if my narrative isn’t as captivating as Mr. Kane’s.” He says that mostly to make Patrick smile. “The first was this feeling that everything was contrived, that after the shooting of Mr. Doyle, everybody on the boat ended up on the port side, leaving only Mr. and Mrs. Doyle on the starboard. That felt intentional. Likewise, the argument between Mr. Doyle and Miss Belfort before she shot him. That seemed staged, unnatural, even a little manipulative.”

Vikram appears again with the bloody towel and its contents. He lays them on the table before leaving.

“The second thing was this,” Jonathan says, pointing to the table. “The gun that was used to kill Mrs. Doyle, and the towel that was used to muffle the shot, and the ashtray that was used to stop both of these things from blowing away. And this --” He holds up the tiny piece of balloon. “This makes no sense, although it had to have a purpose.” He then lifts the towel and points to the bullet holes. “But see, this could _not_ have been the towel used to muffle the shot that killed Mrs. Doyle, because no towel was used. There are scorch marks on her skin, which means that she was shot directly, without any barrier between her and the gun. I double-checked the entry wound myself yesterday. And we know that Mr. Doyle was also shot directly. Patrick and I were there, we saw it with our own eyes. So that means that a third shot was fired and this blood on the towel must belong to someone else. But who? No one else has been shot.” 

He lifts the gun, opening the chamber and holding it out. “This is a five bullet chamber, but you can see that there are only two bullets left. And five take away two is…” 

Jonathan puts the gun into his pocket instead of back onto the table. “And why keep all of this? Why not just throw it overboard? Why would the murderer think they would need the gun again? Unless they were planning to kill someone else? But two other people did die, just not from gunshots. It just…” He shakes his head. “Nothing made sense.”

“That’s because this is all nonsense,” Simon snaps. “Utter poppycock.”

“No, it was you, Mr. Doyle, and the more time that went by, the more I became convinced of it. I just didn’t know how,” Jonathan says. “And the necklace confused me for a while, but when it wasn’t hidden in the bloody towel bundle, I knew that the theft was separate from the murder, and then things started to become clear.”

“Good for you,” Sir Easton mutters. “Because I’m absolutely lost.”

“I’m not telling it very well,” Jonathan admits. “Let’s start back at the beginning, before the murders, before the cruise, even before the Doyles got married. Right back to when Linnea first met Simon. Because that’s when this begins. Julia introduces Simon to Linnea, and Linnea falls in love with Simon. Just like Julia hoped, just like she and Simon planned.”

“What?” Sir Easton says into the new astonishment.

“Yes,” Jonathan says. “Simon Doyle and Julia Belfort are still very much in love. They always have been. The first time I met Miss Belfort, she told me that she would do anything for Simon. And she meant it. She would even stand by as he married her friend, and then play the jilted lover following them everywhere while they were on honeymoon. Of course, none of that was chance. Julia always knew where to find them because she and Simon had planned that long in advance -- Italy, then Greece, Turkey, Cyprus, and finally, Egypt. Cairo was to be the stage for the final act. Simon would kill Linnea while on a cruise, inherit her fortune, and then after some appropriate time, be reunited with his true love.

“And then, on the day of the murder, Patrick and I are given the parts of the reliable witnesses. Miss Belfort stayed behind on the boat to befriend us, as planned. She spins us a story about her disembarking the following day, and it's looks as if she's finally walking away from Simon Doyle. She even managed to pick up a piece of useful information when she came up to the top deck and heard Patrick say that he was afraid of blood.”

“It’s true,” Patrick says, shrugging. “Although lately, the more I see of it, the less it bothers me. I think I’m getting used to it.”

Jonathan gives him and the interruption a mock-glare. “Simon Doyle is also doing his bit on the tour in Beni Suef. He’s cancelled the bus. Now people have to walk for miles back to the boat, when they’ve been walking all day, and they’re tired. But that’s because Simon wants them to be tired. Before he left, he also gave his wife only a portion of the sedative Dr. Sauer had prescribed for her, which is why she woke early in the afternoon. He needed the rest of it for… you, Dr. Sauer. I’m going to guess that he slipped it into your bottle before you got back on the boat.”

“You drugged me?” Sauer snaps, outraged.

“Lies,” Simon shouts back. “It’s all lies.”

Sauer points a finger at him, wagging it furiously. “But you did ask for some of my water, Mr. Doyle. I remember it clearly because I warned you not to drink it all.”

Simon looks up at the ceiling, while Sauer continues to glare at him.

“After dinner,” Jonathan continues. “Which is late because of the cancelled bus, everyone goes to bed, and only myself, Patrick and Julia are there when Mr. and Mrs. Doyle come in. Linnea leaves as soon as Julia speaks to her, which leads to an argument between Julia and Simon, which leads to her shooting him, right in front of us. Patrick and I have seen two vitally important things -- we saw Linnea leave the room, very much alive, and then we saw Simon get shot. We have become Mr. Doyle’s alibis. 

“Then it’s about getting Patrick and I to the port side of the boat and keeping us there. Patrick is sent to get the doctor but can’t waken him, because he is drugged. I’m trying to get Miss Belfort to her cabin, but she’s being as difficult as she can be. We pass the kitchen and get off the starboard deck, and then she begins to lean over the railings, claiming to be sick. Not long after that, we meet Sr. Bernadine, who takes Miss Belfort to her cabin, and Patrick has found Vikram, who lets us in to wake Dr. Sauer up. I have to shake him awake in the end.”

Sauer is nodding his head and tapping his chin. “Yes, it is unusual for me to sleep so heavily. But I blamed the long day.” He returns to staring at Simon.

“We are now where Mr. Doyle wants us to be, on the opposite side of the boat from him and Mrs. Doyle,” Jonathan says. “All in, the time between us leaving the lounge and returning with Dr. Sauer is about ten minutes. Which is all the time Simon Doyle needed to murder his wife.”

He looks over at Patrick, who smiles at him, as if proud of Jonathan’s delivery.

“But how?” Smith says, almost in wonderment. 

“Yes,” Dr. Sauer says. He looks more than a little disappointed in Jonathan. “There is no way that Mr. Doyle could have moved. No way in the world.”

“No,” Jonathan agrees. “Not if he’d been really shot. But what Patrick and I thought we saw, and what we actually saw were totally different things.”

That had been the hardest hole to fill, and it had taken them a few hours, and a couple of bouts of kissing before they got there.

“Julia has the gun in her hand, and all eyes are on her, where she wants them to be. She shoots, and Mr. Doyle falls onto the sofa. Then she drops the gun, and runs to me, keeping me from attending to Mr. Doyle, and knowing that Patrick won’t because he doesn’t like blood. But what they’re stopping us from seeing is that the bullet has been fired into the sofa cushion, and the blood that’s pouring from Mr. Doyle’s leg is not actually blood, but a red dye that he has stored in a small balloon that is hidden in his hand. The balloon has been burst, and is now leaking through his fingers, making it look as though he is actually bleeding from a gunshot wound. 

“Patrick, Julia and I leave the room as instructed. And that’s when Simon Doyle stands, uninjured. He wipes his hands on a nearby bar towel, takes off his shoes and his bloody pants, picks up the gun, and runs to his wife’s room, where he shoots her dead. He then rushes back, picks the bullet out of the cushion and throws it out the window and into the river. He dresses again, covers his knee with the towel to muffle the sound, and shoots himself in the leg. Then Mr. Doyle wraps the gun, the balloon fragments, and the ashtray in the bloody towel and throws it behind him, out the window and overboard. But this time his aim is not so good, and he misses the Nile. The bundle lands in the row boat, where it unravels. And Mr. Doyle is in so much agony that he doesn’t notice that there is no splash.” 

Jonathan shakes his head at himself. “It made no sense to me, why the gun and the incriminating evidence were kept and hidden in the row boat. But then I saw Patrick throwing something at the trash-can, and it hit me. You were trying to throw it away, Mr. Doyle, but you missed.” He walks closer to Simon. “I may not have everything a hundred percent correct, but I have the overall story, don’t I?”

Simon squeezes his eyes shut like a child who does not want to see something, and Jonathan knows it won’t take much else to break him. 

“It was almost perfect,” he says. “Your wife is dead, but you could not have done it because you were shot, and Miss Belfort could not have done it because she was both sedated and with Sr. Bernadine for the rest of the night. Your alibis are iron clad. But then everything went very wrong, because Hana was on her way to her mistress's cabin, and she heard the gunshot from the lounge. So she hid in the shadows of the staircase, and stayed there for twenty minutes. The next day when you and her were in Dr. Sauer’s cabin, I came in and she told me this, but she was really telling you. If she had been under the stairs for twenty minutes after the first gunshot, then she saw you enter your wife's cabin to kill her. So before I left, you asked me to send Miss Belfort to you. You said that you wanted to see her because you now understood her heartbreak, and you wanted to apologize. But that wasn't true. What you wanted was to warn her that Hana knew, and that Hana would want money to stay quiet.

“But Miss Belfort had not come this far to have a blackmailer tied to her for the rest of her life, so she arranged to meet Hana in Hana’s room, and handed over the money. She then stabbed Hana in the neck, and took back the money. A small piece tore off and was left behind, which was found by Dr. Sauer. It was risky, and she was nearly caught by Hana’s roommate, Delilah, who came back to the room to get a clean apron while Miss Belfort was still there. But at the last minute, Delilah remembered that she had another apron in the kitchen so she didn’t go in. She told me that she knew Hana was inside because she could smell perfume, and she thought that it was the perfume Hana stole from Mrs. Doyle all the time. 

“It wasn’t, though. It was Miss Belfort’s perfume, something Delilah noticed this morning when everyone was sitting together, and Miss Belfort reached out a hand to offer comfort. At first Delilah was puzzled, but then she worked it out, it wasn't Mrs. Doyle's perfume she smelled outside her room yesterday, it was Miss Belfort's. She came crashing into Dr. Sauer’s cabin, unable to catch her breath but gasping that she knew who murdered Hana and Mrs. Doyle. And you raised your voice to her -- you shouted, _You know who killed my wife_ , and I thought you were nervous or excited. But you weren’t. You were again giving Miss Belfort a warning. Remember that all cabin doors were now open for safety, and Miss Belfort’s cabin is next door to Dr. Sauer’s, so she heard pretty clearly. She reached for the knife that she had stolen from the kitchen to kill Hana, and hadn’t yet thrown overboard. She quietly walked to door of the room we were in and she could see that Patrick and I had our backs to her. She threw the knife at Delilah’s neck, and then rushed the few steps back into her cabin before I got to the door.”

“She must have a bloody good aim,” Smith says.

“She has amazing aim,” Patrick says, almost ruefully. “We played darts, and I didn’t win once. She crushed me.”

“Just like the hangman is going to crush you, Mr. Doyle,” Jonathan says.

And that’s all it takes to push Simon Doyle into a gush of tears, confessions, and apologies.

*

“Clever of you,” Julia says, smiling grimly. “To keep me away for your big reveal.”

They’re standing on the deck, watching Luxor come into view. Ten minutes should take them there, and for Jonathan, it can’t come quick enough.

“I thought so,” he says. “You’re not just the brains of the pair, you’re the backbone. It was always going to be easier to make him fold if you weren’t there.”

“He’s weak.” She shrugs, helpless. “He always has been.”

“And he’s your weakness, isn’t that what you once told me?”

“He is.” She laughs, a brittle, pitchy sound. “I can’t help it. I love him to death.”

“To three people’s deaths."

She looks at him, her eyes watery. “Have you ever killed someone, Superintendent?”

Jonathan shakes his head. “No.”

“It’s easy,” she says. “It’s actually frightfully easy.”

“And it was almost unnecessary,” Jonathan says. “If you had kept your distance, then you would have had exactly what you wanted without it ever coming to this.”

She frowns at him. “Whatever do you mean?” 

“It was Hana who pushed the boulder off the roof. She was trying to kill Mrs. Doyle, but Simon was the one who stopped it by shouting out. At first I thought he was trying to save his wife, but he wasn’t. He was saving you. The way he was after, shocked and pale, that wasn't an act. But it wasn't for his wife, it was for you. It was the shock of seeing _you_ almost be killed. I think if you hadn’t been there, then he wouldn’t have called out, and Mrs. Doyle would have been dead before the boat sailed.”

“How do you know it was Hana?”

“Patrick and I found sequins on the roof that came from Mrs. Doyle’s purse." He had almost missed that, so sure they were looking for a dress to match the sequins that it wasn't until after he held the purse did he realize what was in his hand. "Hana had been carrying it and it got damaged when she shoved the boulder. She did the repairs herself and was returning the purse to Mrs. Doyle when she saw Simon going into the cabin to kill his wife.” He turns his face to hers. “But oh, you were so close that day at the Old Town. You almost had it all without it costing you anything.”

Julia looks back out over the Nile, her expression oddly peaceful. “C’est la vie.”

*

Once the boat has docked, Jonathan and Patrick stand together near the gate waiting for the guests to depart. “I’ve been thinking,” Jonathan says, giving a quick wave to Dr. Sauer.

“About?”

“About leaving the ENP and becoming a private investigator. We could travel around together, me solving mysteries and you writing about them.”

He deserves the sharp elbow he gets to the ribs. “I think I might have made a contribution or two to the solving of this mystery,” Patrick huffs.

“Maybe,” Jonathan agrees, smirking, and then straightening up when more guests start to approach.

“It’s frightfully good of you both,” Sir Easton says, shaking their hands enthusiastically. “To let this… bother go.”

“We really can’t thank you enough,” Lady Vivienne adds. She looks younger without her veil and the make-up washed from her face.

“The necklace has been returned,” Jonathan says. “So, there is no crime anymore.”

“Does that apply to me, too?” Pennington says.

“Can you give back what you took?” Patrick asks.

Pennington glares. “Go to hell,” he snaps, stomping down the gangway.

Mr. Smith also stops to shake hands and say goodbye.

“Believe it or not, but you and I share quite a few philosophies,” Jonathan says. “But maybe you could work on your motives, and your delivery.”

“Yeah,” Smith agrees. “If I’ve learned anything from this great adventure, it’s that I might be nicer to people. And I think I’ll start with helping those two fools get their hotel up and running. Creating employment, that’s a worthy endeavour, isn’t it?”

“Very worthy,” Patrick says.

A minute or two later, Simon Doyle is stretchered past them, looking up at the sky, and last to leave is Julia Belfort, who gives a strange smile as she passes by.

Simon is laid down on the ground while the ambulance doors are opened, and Julia makes her way to him, taking his hand to squeeze it.

“May I kiss him?” she calls up, and Jonathan nods.

She bends down towards Simon, and there’s the sound of one gunshot, closely followed by another. When the ensuing chaos clears, Julia’s dead body lies over Simon’s. Both of them have their eyes closed, at peace.

“Where did she get the gun?” Patrick asks, watching as the bodies are lifted into the ambulance.

“From my pocket,” Jonathan answers. “She took it when we were standing together on the deck just before we docked.”

Patrick turns to gawp at him. “You didn’t feel her taking it? Oh my god, is this what you meant when you said she was going to be the last victim? You let her take the gun?”

Jonathan thinks for a few seconds before answering. “What was it you once said when you were talking about love -- it’s a messy, complicated business… not everyone gets a happy ending…” He sighs. “Well, maybe this is as happy an ending as they were ever going to get.”

“God,” Patrick mutters. “I’m sick of death. When I’m finished my book, and you’ve left your job, we should take a vacation to somewhere nice. Somewhere where people stay alive.” 

He turns away, and Jonathan follows, both of them walking down the deck to collect the luggage from their cabin, close but not touching.

“You got anywhere in mind?”

“Yes,” Patrick says. “We should go on the Orient Express. I've always wanted to do that. And no one ever dies on the Orient Express.”

*

FIN


End file.
